Two Roads
by Acid and Sinick
Summary: As Alistair walks away from the crown, it's up to Loghain Mac Tir to achieve the impossible: persuade Maric's bastard to fulfill his duties and marry Loghain's daughter. He'll try his best, but will it be the right thing to do? Alistair/Loghain
1. The Spirit Charm

After a young mage, Solona Amell, makes the ultimate sacrifice to stop the Blight, only two Grey Wardens remain alive in Ferelden. Unfortunately, they are not on speaking terms. As Alistair decides to walk away from the crown, will Loghain Mac Tir achieve the impossible: persuade Maric's bastard to fulfill his duties and marry Loghain's daughter? He'll certainly try his best, but will it be the right thing to do?

Based on Dragon Age Origins and Awakening, as well as David Gaider's books "The Stolen Throne" and "The Calling". Alistair/Loghain.

* * *

**TWO ROADS**

* * *

_"In war, victory. In peace, vigilance. In death, sacrifice."_

_Grey Warden Motto  
_

* * *

**CHAPTER 1: The Spirit Charm**

"Alistair?" Of course, it would be Wynne who found him after Solona's funeral. There was no use in hiding from Wynne: like a Revered Mother she was, always awake, always watching.

This time she held a flat iron disk in her outstretched hand. The disc tumbled from her palm, but its fall was arrested by the string tangled in her fingers; it hung in midair, turning slowly on its hempen cord.

"Huh. What's this?" he muttered, peering at it. _Mage trinkets..._ Just as he finished speaking, the disc rotated far enough that he could see the flame of Andraste on its other side.

"Solona's spirit charm," Wynne told him quietly.

_Solona's._ As he heard that name spoken, without intending it, Alistair's hands clenched into fists. Just like they had when he'd seen that bastard Loghain at the funeral, wearing a cloak with a Grey Warden griffin, of all things, over that pretentious Chevalier plate. At that memory, Alistair's fists tightened until they shook: even if he tried now, he wouldn't be able to take the amulet.

Wynne lifted her free hand and laid it on Alistair's shoulder. Her touch was soft. Comforting. Alistair had so often imagined that a mother's touch, or a grandmother's, would be just as kind. He still craved that, the comfort of a _real_ family; not a bitter, contemptuous stranger like Goldanna, and not someone who shoved you aside until you were useful, like Eamon. Alistair wanted a family like Solona, and he would've had it too, if he hadn't run away like a hotheaded fool. He still wanted that, despite it all: a family like the Grey Wardens would have been, if any were left.

Loghain didn't count. Not as a Warden and definitely not as family. Not even as an in-law.

"I think Solona would have wanted you to have this," Wynne continued, low and soothing. "Something to remember her by." She continued to hold the amulet out, patiently.

Alistair huffed. He wasn't a child, so he shouldn't _need_ to be crooned at and comforted like a baby at his mother's bosom. "She doesn't need me to remember her! Half of Thedas and their aunt Mildred remembers."

"Mm," Wynne echoed, ever-so-calm. "And today you've made sure that it stays that way."

"I suppose." Alistair inhaled and it stung. "But it wasn't just me, you know. Leliana's composed _ballads_ about her." His voice hitched into something like a sigh, or a sob. "I can't write songs, so I had to do the only thing I could do, and that was talk. So I spoke at her funeral, so what? In a week's time, who'll remember what I said? I can only hope that in the long run, people will have better things to remember her by, beautiful things like Leliana's ballads, and statues and legends. It's what Solona deserves."

"Of course she does." Wynne pursed her lips, and nodded silently, and then she slid the charm into Alistair's hand, and gazed down at him, sombre, solemn. "And now, you can keep something she treasured." she said softly. "Don't you think that's what you deserve?"

Alistair nodded. His fingers closed against the warm metal and he released a held breath. It hurt to exhale. Why did it hurt so much? "I asked for a whole new Tower for you, for all the mages. How'd I do?"

"Good, Alistair." Wynne's smile was warm, fond. It always was. Gentle and kind.

He kept talking past her words; he had to, before his throat closed over completely. "... and they'll build her a whole new statue in front of the whole new Mage Tower. Or is it the tower in front of the mage statue? Whatever gets built first, but they both _will_ be built! I'll make sure of it." Suddenly Alistair's vision was blurry and his throat was tight, and he blinked and his eyes were stinging and he had to go on babbling to cover it up. "That beats any old - well, new - tomb at Weisshaupt, doesn't it? And anyway, two landmarks are better than one. Fitting for a hero like her, right?"

"Oh, Alistair," Wynne said again, and her hands lifted to cover his gauntlets. "_Look_ at me. You did well. Very well. You should be proud."

That was when Alistair's breath caught for good, and his eyes were already wet enough. He leaned forward, armor and all, and buried his face in the welcoming shoulder of a frail, skinny old mage, at least half a century older than he'd ever live to be. What _was_ it about the Tower mages? A proper Templar was supposed to watch over them, and yet they always snuck up and ended up watching over you. Like Solona, like Wynne.

"I miss her." He inhaled frantically and felt wet warmth sliding down his cheeks, and it probably wasn't appropriate for Ferelden's supposed future ruler to be seen like that. He didn't care. It was the first friendly contact he'd had in what felt like months.

Wynne's arms went around him, and her robes smelled of herbs and campfire, and just for a while Alistair could forget he was in the middle of Denerim. He could imagine he was out in the quiet wilderness, and that Solona was still with him, and the two of them, lightning flashing and sword slashing, were all the Wardens Ferelden needed to defeat the Blight.

"There, there." The warmth of Wynne's Invigorate spell washed over him. "Breathe."

Lost, Alistair had been so lost in this double labyrinth of the Estate and the surrounding city streets, ever since he'd stayed behind in Denerim, while Solona marched away to muster her armies, with that traitor by her side. Ever since Alistair had resigned himself to fulfilling his destiny as the Royal Bastard, and marrying the Ice Princess of Ferelden, he'd felt alone and out of place. He should have been with Solona. Maker's breath, it should have been _him_, stopping the Archdemon the proper way, for Duncan. It should have been _him_ taking that final stand; not a girl half his size in a permanent state of Lyrium delirium, with her hair ruffled by stray lightning, not even a helmet over her head. Who knew what she'd sacrificed herself for, in the end. Maker! If it wasn't for Loghain... if it wasn't for the Landsmeet...

If it wasn't for that scheming traitor's conscription forcing Alistair to leave the Grey Wardens, Solona would have been still alive, and Alistair would have been the Warden he'd sworn on Duncan's death that he would be.

Funny how life made a mockery of the most heartfelt vows, of wishes and hopes and dreams. All Alistair had ever wanted was family, but when it came right down to it, he'd stood back and watched, as the only family that truly mattered walked out and left him behind.

Nothing could fix that now.

Through the salty haze of tears, Alistair wondered what the Snow Queen was up to now. Probably with her father, discussing whether to plant a blade in Alistair's back or slip a convenient poison into his goblet of wedding wine. Surely, all alone, Alistair wouldn't rate an Antivan assassin in their eyes, not when Loghain could use his own daughter to finish the dirty job. Keep it in the family.

_'Family', ha! Some family.  
_  
Thinking about having to join _that_ family, even thinking about the fact that the bastard was still around - not only alive but the only other Warden left in all of Ferelden - made Alistair's stomach churn, made him taste bile all over again, made him wonder if there was any justice left at all after the Blight.

* * *

Wynne and Shale were getting ready to leave, and Alistair thought of asking them to delay. But that'd be childish, really, so childish and stupid. He'd faced a Broodmother; surely he could overcome one tiny fear of marrying the traitor's daughter - marrying _anyone_ - and not having someone friendly to talk to about how awkward and lonely and terrifying it all was. But even Wynne had better things to do, more important things, than talk Alistair through his wedding jitters. Awkward didn't even begin to describe it. At least Zevran had already disappeared somewhere, into whatever holes assassins slithered into at night. Good riddance. The last thing Alistair needed was Zevran, slinking in and purring in that Antivan accent of his, every single disturbing idea he'd ever had about how Alistair should spend his wedding night.

_Andraste's flaming knickers! The wedding night! Ugh! No! Definitely not worth even thinking about that now. Not until I absolutely have to, hopefully never! Yeah, never's a good time for that._

Wynne said she was heading for the mountains, and then she went on about rituals and spells and artifacts... transmogrification, transmagification... something. Alistair wished he could go with her, but she was so busy, absorbed with her research plans. She wouldn't want him underfoot. It wasn't as if he was a mage, or a scholar. He wasn't much of anything these days.

Wynne hugged him again, warmly, with a parting spell as she let go of his shoulders at last. Shale just stood there, nodded as much as a stone golem could nod, and then cautioned Alistair to "Keep its eye on the pigeon crap when it puts its crown on its head."

Alistair nodded and thought that the sentiment was very sweet. Although that the fact that they didn't even want to stay with him until the ceremony spoke volumes. _He_ wouldn't want to stay for his own coronation or wedding to Anora either.

Alistair stayed in his rooms. His rooms weren't scary, unlike Royal Weddings; they were warm and only slightly messy and blessedly free of Loghain's evil self or evil spawn. Solona's charm was always around his neck now, and he'd developed a new habit with his hands, too. He'd roll two runestones in his hand, one black, one white. The silver rune rubbed against the gold as he tumbled them in his palm, keeping them constantly moving, like rocks in a riverbed. Solona had found them, and given them both to him. She'd picked up the first one in Aeducan Thaig. She was still a near-stranger then, and she'd looked to him like such a typical mage, with her robes and staff and talk of spells and things Alistair would never really understand. And even though Alistair was older and bigger by far, he'd felt so awkward around her. What was he supposed to do? Ask her how the weather was up in the Fade? Try being less of a big bad mage hunter? Or maybe he should've just painted a warning sign on his armor: 'Templar. Drains magic, do not hex!'

He was just being sarcastic when he'd told her that there was nothing like a Blight to bring people together, but in their case, it had worked. After that shaky start, they'd been through so much together, watched each other's back, saved each other's life a hundred times. So by the time Solona must've found the other runestone - in their Tower, when Wynne joined them - she was just a fellow Warden to Alistair, and he felt as though he'd known her for years.

Apparently she'd never felt awkward around him like he'd felt around her, not even back in the beginning. He still remembered the casual flick of her wrist as she tossed the runestones his way. "Look, shiny. Want 'em?"

"Mmm, I suppose I could use a spare..." Alistair changed his voice to a comical squeakiness, "...pair of stones."

Solona laughed and laughed. "Couldn't we all!" She had a good laugh. Honest. Open. Alistair couldn't even tell she was a mage then, the creepy explosive sort that got high on lyrium and then summoned a lightning storm at your hind quarters with the snap of the fingers. _Zap_!

Morrigan was definitely the 'zap!' sort, that wicked, wanton witch, but not Solona. No. Solona sounded just like one of the giggling Initiates at the Temple, all normal and human and a Grey Warden as well, like Alistair. Yes, she was definitely all right.

Alistair thought of what awaited him, what he was staying for, and even his promise to Solona wasn't strong enough to keep him in the city. Not with the Snow Queen of Ferelden around, just waiting to get him in her clutches, and compare him to Cailan, and find him wanting. No. Just... Maker's breath, no!

He wasn't cut out to be a noble, spending the rest of his life in the snake pit of politics. It just wasn't who he was.

But soon he'd be forced to become someone he never wanted to be: not even a King, merely a consort, ruler in name only, a figurehead on a ship of State steered by a power-hungry ice-sculpture of a woman. And always, always under the watchful eye of Loghain Mac Tir. It definitely wasn't what Alistair had ever planned.

He'd grown up in a stable! He couldn't be less ready for any of this!

"Don't you ever wonder what it would be like? The Court?" Solona asked him one night at camp, as they shared a skin of ale between them. To the right, Oghren snored, already passed out drunk. To the left, Leliana hummed something soft and mournful and Orlesian. Morrigan set up her own tent, on the opposite side of the hill, far away from the campfire. Sten and the Dog had the first watch. Alistair made sure to sit facing Morrigan's tent: no sense in turning your back on any sneaky witches, not unless you wanted to be a frog for the rest of your short, squishy life. So, it didn't hurt having Solona next to him either. Safety in numbers and all. Besides, if worst came to worst, Solona's staff could zap back as well as that wicked, warped branch of Morrigan's.

"Hm?" Alistair shrugged and reached for the drink. "The scenery's nice, I suppose, but the company mostly isn't. Oh, I suppose some are all right..." They were miles away from the city and here in the wilderness Denerim was just a tiny cross and a few squigglies on the map, safe to speculate on. Still, he turned around to check that no one else was listening, before continuing: "But others: only two words for them, royal bastards. Not royal bastards like me, but - well - worse. Ten times worse! Yeah, I know I'm no prize. But all _they_ do, day and night, is fill up Denerim's taverns, strut around all arrogant in their finery, and argue about who's more important, over much better drinks than ours."

He passed the ale back and Solona tipped it up and choked, spitting ale out in a single bout of laughter.

"They need those drinks," Alistair grinned, "'cause no one'd put up with them sober. Not even themselves."

"Good to know," Solona snorted. "I suppose it's the wrong time to say that I wanted to be a princess once."

"A _what_?" Alistair blinked. "Solona!" He blinked again and let out a laugh. Honestly, it was quite a manly laugh, as far as laughter went. And if it sounded anything like a _giggle_, well it was only all the ale bubbling up. He'd drunk enough. Even the camp began to spin. "Really?"

Solona smacked him with her free hand. "Oh, hush. I was seven! Of course I wanted to be a princess!" She sat up straighter on her log, her chin raised, and her elbows out, as if it truly was a throne. "A pretty, spoiled princess, like the name of the inn across that lake we couldn't ever cross." She stared at the fire. "I think it was forbidden even to _look_ across it. I don't know, I never got caught. What else did I have to do in the Tower? Just look out at the world when I could, and read, and dream about being someone else. Anyone's better off than a mage..." It was then she deflated and her shoulders sagged, her arms circled her knees and she sat there, all small and frizzy-haired: a skinny girl in a long, bulky robe. "And the nobles all have parents..."

_Ouch_. "Well," Alistair mumbled. "That they do, lucky slobs."

"Oh." Solona blinked, and she must've caught an echo of whatever made her hug her knees in Alistair's too-cheerful tone because she added quietly, "You too, huh. I'm sorry."

"S'fine! Really. It's all right." Alistair put on a smile that had the same slightly-overdone cheeriness as his voice. It was easier to do, once the ale warmed its way down his throat. She was what, sixteen? Less? How long was she locked up in that Tower? Probably at least a decade... Did she even remember what it was like in the world outside? But Alistair knew, all too well, that barely remembering something didn't stop you from wanting it. It was natural to want a normal family. When Alistair was a boy he would've given anything to have a good Mum and a good Dad, and many, many brothers and sisters, younger and older and loud and annoying and perfect. He'd still give anything for that. But surely that wasn't the kind of thing you just declared to someone else out of the blue. "Nothing to worry about!" he mumbled instead. "And anyway, life as a noble isn't all the bards or the books tell you it is." He stood up, stumbled, and tried to deliver a mock-bow to cover up just how clumsy he was today. "Your Royal Highness."

Solona snorted and pulled the ale back as he reached out for more. "Now that title's far too dull for me. Suits _you_ much better."

Now that almost did send Alistair tumbling backwards. "Me? A... a-" he waved his hands about, trying to get the word out, "- princess - _Prince_!" He would have been a prince, of course, and she was absolutely, clearly, undeniably... "Are you _mad_?"

"Maybe." Solona shrugged, not too terribly upset. "As mad as any mage. But even I can see that someone has to become King, Alistair. And if it's you, think of all the good you'll do."

"No!" Alistair frowned and shook his head. "No, you're wrong and m'good. 'Mean, m'already doin' good. Not 'cause I've got some noble's blood in me. S'cause I drank blood. 'Cause _we_ drank blood. We _chose_ to drink it. I chose to drink it 'stead o'drinkin' Lyrium like a good little Templar. You chose t'drink - you're still drinking that. Lyrium... an' ale, but we're drinkin' th' ale together. An' we're Wardens together! Not Templars, not m-Mages, Wardens! Grey and good and we do good! Every. Single. Day." Alistair's words slurred, sharp and loud over the crackling of the campfire. "_We_ do good. Not the nobles. Th' nobles don't _ever_ do good. They let you down... they do. They drag you up and they - they throw you out and then they kick you when you're down. Every single time..."

Try as he might, Alistair never could recall the camp grounds spinning 'round and 'round as wildly as it did that evening. And the ale he drank turned out to be meaner than Morrigan. Bad, wicked, wanton ale.

Come to think of it, he hadn't have a single sip of ale since that very night.

Alistair snapped out of his reverie, going with a jolt from one extreme to the other: out of a daydream and into a frantic flurry of action. He threw the runestones in his bag and put on his old splint mail. Around his neck hung the two amulets, both with the same flame of Andraste engraved on them: the silver of his mother's amulet cool on his skin, the iron of Solona's charm thudding against his chest, heavy as his heartbeat.

_I'm sorry, Solona. I was never really a prince, and I can't be king. There's only one thing I was ever good at, and that's being a Grey Warden. The world would've been so much better off if I was dead, instead of you._

He closed his hand over the double charms, and they responded with a dull clink. So many things in life went by twos: twin mementos of the dead, twin regrets, twin disappointments. All paired up nice and neat like that, like new socks: all except Alistair himself.

Alistair himself was... very much alone. His socks weren't particularly new either. But at least the Estate's servants were better at mending his old socks than he was. That was pretty much the only good thing about Denerim.

It was only when Alistair was well outside of Denerim - where the outskirts became an open road, snaking amid farms and ruined fields far past the city walls - when the full realization hit him of what he'd just done. Panic set in, and he hurried off the road in case someone had followed him, but no one was around.

_Maybe I should've left a note. Just in case Anora doesn't know yet, and gets all her hopes up for the wedding ceremony. But she's clever, and she'll have plenty of time to figure it out. Besides, she isn't the type to be really hurt at being left at the altar. She doesn't seem like the type to be hurt by anything. I mean, it's not as though she loves me, or even likes me. And it's not as if it's her first time. At the altar, that is, not being left there. No, this is the best thing to do, for everyone._

_I can't marry her. Marrying means being a family. But this marriage for the crown would be nothing but a charade. What kind of kingdom can be built on a lie like that? It wouldn't be right, or fair._

_And if Anora wants the crown so much, she can have it. Without my head to prop it up for display!_

He strode off the road and into a ravine filled with blackberry shrubs and elfroot. He kicked a pebble and kicked it again for good measure and his chest was surprisingly lighter than it was before.

_I bet Anora won't even notice I'm gone_, he thought, and huffed his amusement at the wind.

He didn't stop until he was far past the main road with all of its Blight-ruined farmsteads. He set camp amid the willows by a creek and tried not to think of the night approaching: of sleeping alone, with no one to watch over him and keep him safe. Of not having anyone to talk to, other than himself.

It was his worst nightmare back then, after the slaughter at Ostagar - not the Darkspawn-induced nightmare, but a real, true fear - that even Solona would leave him, and he'd be all alone, the last Grey Warden in Ferelden.

Now he was _nearly_ the only one left, and how he wished that he _was_ the only one. _Couldn't Loghain have had the decency to drop dead during his Joining ceremony?_ He gave a bitter laugh. _Course not. What does Loghain know about decency?_

Alistair didn't want to think about Loghain any more than he absolutely had to, so he reached into his bag and took out the carved statuettes that he carried with him always: the warrior and the girl, the dragon and the demon. He unwrapped the soft cotton cloth around them and set them out on his empty bedroll.

_There, company._

To some they were trinkets, a childish infatuation - toys, even. But even as a boy Alistair never had many toys, so he'd cherished the few he did have. And these - these weren't toys, they were mementoes, and they were important. They were _his_. All his. He tried to line them up on the bedroll's rough wool. The demon didn't quite balance right and toppled over, knocking down the warrior with him as he fell. Alistair patiently set them upright. His fingers brushed the cool marble of the warrior statuette, the warm ivory of the girl, the intricate carving of the dragon's scales, the smooth onyx skin of the demon.

He stared at the slim, bright girl, facing the dragon. So tiny she was. So unarmed. Not even a helmet on her. Suddenly he blinked and couldn't face her any longer. So he set the girl and the dragon aside, re-wrapping each one carefully.

The dragon was slain and Solona was dead. What was left then, besides Alistair, fighting his own demon? He stared at the polished onyx figure, studying the demon's toothy smirk. Its skin wasn't onyx-black now, but paler, reflecting the warrior's grey marble because the two figures were standing so close.

_Loghain_, he thought with a pang of frustration, sending the demon back to its cloth prison. Loghain was evil and didn't deserve to be part of the tale. Alistair would rather remember the good instead: Solona, Wynne, Duncan.

He traced the warrior's armor. The statuette's tiny fist curved around the hilt of a stone sword, the other raised a shield of marble. Alistair's own shield was painted with a grey griffin. It had belonged to Duncan once...

Ever since Ostagar, Alistair had missed Duncan. Now he missed Duncan more than ever.

Despite his thoughtless words at the Landsmeet, Alistair knew that you really couldn't stop being a Warden. Even with the Archdemon gone, Alistair still felt the taint in his blood. Beating hot and suffocating, it called him south, back to the place where it all began.

To Duncan's final resting place. To Ostagar.

Alistair knew now what he had to do. He'd made a promise to himself once, and he was going to honor it. Unlike becoming king in name only, this was a task true and worthwhile. He had to complete it, if it was the last thing he'd do.

This one-man mission, this pilgrimage was Alistair's duty. He'd go to Ostagar, and this time the torch he'd carry wouldn't light any useless beacons for Loghain's army. It would light the funeral pyre for one Warden's sacrifice.

For Duncan.

* * *

"'Walked out'?" Anora quoted acidly; her lips were in a thin, disapproving line as she stared at the captain of the guard. "Are you telling me that _my_ future prince-consort just took a morning stroll out of the castle, right past _your_ hand-picked guards, and they didn't bother to report it until _now_?" Her high-pitched tone rose until it stung the ears like a well-placed whiplash.

"Yes, m'Lady! Um. NO! Of course not!" The poor sod shuffled, uncomfortable and clearly unacquainted with the Queen's quarters. Anora's face was pale, her stare livid. Loghain could tell she was on the verge of threatening the fool guard with the punishment due to treason, and it _would_ almost amount to treason if their monarch-to-be had walked out on their watch. But the last thing Ferelden needed was the wrangling among the nobles that would surely result if it became public knowledge that their precious Theirin heir had fled rather than rule them.

Anora knew the problems of their situation as well as her father did, so instead of threatening the guard, she merely snapped, "Well? Report! What direction did he go? Was he alone? What did he have with him? Did he say anything? You do know that much, don't you?"

Loghain stood to one side, watching with silent approval as his daughter dealt with the latest unfortunate turn of events. He didn't bother to follow her words too closely; it was too easy to let himself stew in the fury that seethed in his blood like the Taint. _First, that coward ran out on Ferelden, now he's run out on my daughter! _Loghain's fist closed on the hilt of his sword. _He will pay._

Once the commander of the guards had fled, leaving the two of them alone, Anora turned to him. She was wringing her hands, in a rare display of nerves. "Father?"

Loghain stepped forward and reached out to her, letting his hands rest gently on her shoulders. The gauntlets made his hands look even more massive against her fine-boned, delicate frame. He tightened silverite-clad fingers slightly, in a careful, silent gesture of support, before he let her go.

"Maker, what a disaster of a day." Anora sighed. "I'll have to stall as long as possible, before admitting to the public that my 'dear' fiance has fled." Anora's posture sagged with weariness, in a moment of openness she wouldn't allow herself with anyone else. The moment didn't last. With a visible effort, she raised her head and squared her shoulders. "It's a pity people are fond of Theirin kings," she growled, "because I'd rather babysit a bronto than have to marry and manage another one!" At those words, Loghain's throat grew tight with pride: that particular blend of threat and black humour was her direct inheritance from him.

"Better you than me," he fired back, giving her a gallows-humour smirk. "Never fear, I'll keep the stalling down to a minimum." The smirk slid away from his face, leaving an icily determined glare in its place, "I'll find Maric's bastard if it's the last thing I do."


	2. The Ruins of Lothering

**Chapter 2: The Ruins of Lothering**

The next morning, when Loghain awoke, instead of dressing at once, he sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the armor stand, laden with the ornate Chevalier plate that he'd worn for so long. This armor was part of the legend that had grown up around the Hero of River Dane; the story was still told of how he had personally fought the commander of the Orlesians, and stripped the armor from the pompous bastard, as a trophy of Ferelden's victory. The people of Ferelden, who still recalled their liberation from the hated invaders, expected Loghain to wear it; and wear it he had, year in, year out. It was polished bright enough to reflect the morning sun, its intricacies still untouched by rust, its every line as familiar to him as his own body.

It had weighed down his every move for the larger part of his life; ever since that damn battle.

Loghain left it there. As far as he was concerned, Anora could put it in a museum. That empty metal shell could stand in for him, amid other relics of Ferelden's past. Instead of pulling on a gambeson and calling for a servant to help armor him, he crossed to the far corner of the room, to a chest he hadn't opened in ages. The lid glowed faintly, its barrier and immunity runes still alight after all these years. Loghain unlocked it and swung the lid up, releasing a waft of evocative scents: leather and wood.

His fingers rested on his old armor, from the Rebellion: not plate or chainmail, not dragonscale or dragonskin, but simple leather, unstudded, softened by use. It was armor such as as any common soldier might wear, though most ordinary soldiers didn't dye their leather black. The colour wasn't vanity, but stark necessity; it had allowed him to blend in with the darkness, to lead deadly covert strikes against the Orlesians, at the head of his feared Night Elves.

Loghain didn't need anyone to help him put _this _armor on. As he donned it, a smile dawned unbidden, at the realisation that after decades the leathers still fit him like a second skin.

And they felt like a second skin: so light after the massive plate, he felt as if he wasn't armored at all.

He bent - and there wasn't the slightest creak from the well-worn leathers - and retrieved the last thing from the bottom of the chest. The longbow he'd wielded in his rebel days. He'd had to set it aside, when his people's expectation that he wear his enemy's heavy plate had forced Loghain to concentrate on sword and shield tactics.

Moving with the grace of instinct, despite the decades that had gone by since the last time, he hooked one loop of the silken string over the longbow's lower notch, and braced that end against his instep. His hands slid up the slim length of wood in a reflex that looked like an absentminded caress, bending the tall bow into a graceful curve and looping the string over the upper notch in one smooth movement. The bow thrummed in his hands, springing to life under the tension. He flexed it, studying the bend of its arms closely, then nodded silent satisfaction, and unstrung it with the same easy, reaching caress. It was ready. _He _was ready.

A sense of freedom swept over him like a physical force. His spirit felt as light as his limbs without the Chevalier plate, liberated from the weight of scrutiny, reputation, Regency.

In this armor, with this weapon, he wasn't the Hero of River Dane, any more than he was the Regent of Ferelden or the Teyrn of Gwaren. Once again he was only himself, the man he'd always been, under all the titles: Loghain Mac Tir, farmer's son, hunter.

And he had a man to hunt.

* * *

The mabari war hound in the corner of the stables was nursing several healing scratches on his side, but such superficial injuries didn't explain why he lay so still, kept away from others, or slept from day to day. Even the lamb bone a kitchen hand left for him, on Loghain's orders, remained untouched.

"Hello, Dog." He'd only ever heard her call the hound 'Dog', so it'd have to do for a name.

The hound moved his ears, raised his heavy head from crossed paws, and answered with a faint whine. Mabari imprinted on their masters, and this one had been Solona Amell's. Loghain supposed that this was to be his unofficial inheritance, his responsibility, passed down Warden-to-Warden from the fallen hero.

Loghain reached for the cheese in his pocket and sat down not far from the dog, on an upturned bucket.

"Did I ever tell you about the time Adalla brought me a present, when she was only half-grown?"

The hound's nose twitched but he didn't come closer. His ears were turned to Loghain, though, listening intently, as always when Loghain brought up the subject of his childhood friend.

"She brought me a hare. It was a bit eaten, but I appreciated the gesture all the same. My mother didn't, not with blood and guts and chunks of fur all the way down my shirt."

The dog grumbled quietly, exasperated.

"Yes, I know," Loghain echoed the grumble. "I told Mum that I'd shared enough of my meals with Adalla, why couldn't she share hers with me? After all, the blood was easy to clean up: Adalla was happy to lick it off."

Loghain watched the hound carefully and this time, there was definitely a huff of approval and a wag of the stumpy tail. Clearly the hound had enjoyed all those impromptu cleanings of Solona's blood-wet robes.

Loghain gave a small, reminiscent grin. "But Adalla wasn't allowed to lick me clean. We were both sent off to the stream, and told not to stick our noses out again 'til we were both presentable. By the time we came back, Mum had hare stew cooking. I think it was the best stew I've ever had."

He reached out with the cheese, an unintrusive offering on his palm. "Here. I know it's not a warm, juicy hare, but it's the best I could find in the kitchens."

He didn't have to wait long to feel the soft muzzle and the dog's wet tongue swiping across his fingers. Sharp teeth which could take his hand off at the wrist weren't even felt as the dog took care to slurp up the treat and then lap the remainder of cheese crumbs off his palm. Loghain met the hound's intelligent gaze, and lifted his free hand to pat the massive head.

"Good dog," he praised the hound quietly, "Good boy. Better, hm? Yes." He fondled the soft ears, and the hound lolled out his long tongue in a doggy smile. "Here, now," Loghain murmured, "I've got something else for you. Something to do."

In Loghain's other pocket was a cast-away sock that a servant had found in Alistair's quarters. The sock was so full of holes and so poorly mended, it was barely identifiable as such. He presented the tatty bit of wool to the dog and watched him take one curious sniff. The hound wrinkled his muzzle and sneezed, and Loghain gave his own snort of amusement. By way of revenge for the smell, the dog snapped up the sock and chewed it to shreds.

"Yes, indeed, good riddance," Loghain chuckled, "Good boy." His gave a thin smile, and told the dog in that same soft voice, "Just make sure you do the same to the owner, as soon as you find him."

The dog barked and rose to his feet, giving himself a full-body shake and looking up expectantly at Loghain.

"Come on." Loghain walked across the stable, entered a stall and began to saddle his horse.

* * *

Maps were familiar territory, but not as familiar to Loghain as these lands. He'd travelled them so often he could have drawn an accurate map from memory: the Bannorn, the Hinterlands, the Southron Hills. Across the Hafter and Drakon rivers and all along the West Road, Loghain tracked his prey with the focus of a poacher starving for his next meal. Hunger was a feeling he remembered all too well from his youth, and he suspected his four-legged companion had also known his share.

The longbow and a full quiver were slung over Loghain's shoulders. The perks of his position as the only Grey Warden to survive the Archdemon - plate made from the hardest scales along the dragon's spine and a sword carved from one of its overgrown canines - stayed packed in his saddlebags. As did a shield: much older than the Archdemon plate, but far more precious to Loghain than plate, sword and warhorse put together.

The hunt might have seemed an impossible task: Alistair had a day's start on him, and was on foot, and thus able to traverse steep, rocky terrain that Loghain's horse could not. Walking alone, Alistair only needed to change his appearance to lose himself among Ferelden's populace, whereas Loghain, with a horse and a mabari, stood out even if no-one recognised his face.

Yet Loghain also had causes for hope. The mabari seemed confident in tracking, ever since being exposed to the peril of Alistair's sweaty old sock. As well, Loghain had his own ways to read the road and the wilderness beyond. In his youth as an outlaw, he'd been a skilled enough hunter to feed his companions as well as himself, and later as part of the rebel army, he'd used those talents to track and ambush the Orlesians. In recent years, though, he'd feared that age had dulled those skills, but the taint changed that, as it had changed so much else in him. Now, all his senses were sharper than they had been before the Joining. And the taint itself was another means to track Maric's bastard. Not only did it burn in his veins in proximity to darkspawn, he remembered well the milder warmth in his blood in proximity to a fellow Warden.

Still, days passed without reassurance. Once in a while, there was a rumour from a village shop, or a track in dried mud left by a particular boot, or a half-hidden campfire to set him on a fresh trail. At every twitch of Dog's muzzle, Loghain's own nostrils flared with anticipation. Maric's whelp was close; he could almost taste the scent in the dust of the road, hear the echo of armored footsteps thudding in his ears.

Loghain followed their lead. He suspected he could guess where his quarry was going: it was a path Loghain hadn't thought Maric's brat would have the balls to retrace so soon. If Loghain's prediction was right, soon their path would branch off the West Road and onto the Imperial Highway, whose flattened dirt was stirred up and widened and packed twice by the march of a full army, Loghain's own men. For that very reason, among many more, Loghain had no wish to follow these roads any further south than he had to. South lay only the Korcari Wilds, and other places best forgotten.

Places like Ostagar.

Useless ruin. Ostagar held nothing but the relics of a suicidal disaster that Cailan had blindly led them into. Anora was far better off without that delusional gloryseeker.

Loghain kept on going, whether he liked the thought of his potential destination or not. Patience was one of the virtues of the hunter, he reminded himself as he cut and fletched new arrows and sharpened worn arrowheads, sitting crouched over his tiny campfire waiting for that day's catch to cook. As they moved further west and south, the hound grew more restless and jumpy, even in broad daylight. It looked as though the dog also remembered these parts of Ferelden, and the memories were less than fond.

It was at the end of a day's travel, in the ruins of a village called Lothering that Loghain's exploration was interrupted by something other than restless canine pacing.

The mabari barked twice and lifted his muzzle from the ground, sniffing at the wind instead of the ground trail. Suddenly the hound bolted, as determined as if chasing prey, racing down the street, past the burned-out shells of refugee huts. The dog sprinted round a corner, his claws scrabbling for traction, kicking up a cloud of dust. With a half-amused curse, Loghain dismounted, strung his bow, and ran after the dog, expecting to find that evening's catch as he rounded the corner.

It wasn't a hare.

It was a man, alone in the distance. He was armored: the low, late-afternoon sun caught the metal of his splintmail in shining stripes. Loghain instantly darted aside into the shelter of an abandoned shack, then moved closer with all the stealth at his command. He bared his teeth in a silent snarl as he came close enough that he could make out the face. Maric's byblow was sitting there, bold as brass, right in the courtyard of the ruined chantry. The garden might've almost been a peaceful sight, if it wasn't for the wreckage all around.

It was high time that Loghain found the fugitive, and yet it was a shock to see him; after tracking him all these miles, it still felt too soon. The boy turned away, and for a second Loghain saw Maric's long mane trailing on the wind instead of the short soldier's cut, saw Maric's shining plate instead of the duller splintmail... _Maric_, victorious and free after the Rebellion. He had turned away from Loghain just like that, to board the ship that had carried him to his death. One hand lifted, holding something small and red: the exact hue, never to be forgotten, of Rowan's dress. A single red rose. The man bent his head to sniff it-

The moment was broken in a flurry of movement as the dog crouched at the gateway to the garden, gathered himself and leapt for their quarry.

Loghain drew breath to call off the attacking mabari. Too late. The hound landed, knocking the warrior into an overgrown rosebush, as effortlessly as if the man was made of straw. Leaves and rose petals exploded, green and blood-red whirling all around.

Instead of the sound Loghain had expected - the screams of a man being mauled - what he heard was quite different. "Oh heyyy, boy, did you follow me all the way from Denerim? Did you? Good dog! Oooh who's a good boy, then? You are! Yes you are! HEY! No-no-no, not there! Ack! Bad dog! That tickles! Stop it!" All the while, the dog slobbered enthusiastically all over the downed and laughing man, just like he slobbered over the larger bones Loghain gave him.

_So much for mabari loyalty!_ Loghain thought with a snort.

As if on cue, the traitorous mutt bounced up from his equally traitorous human chewtoy, and barked twice, trying to get Loghain's attention.

At last the idiot boy finally started looking around, frantically trying to see what the dog was barking at. "Hey, lemme up, you..."

Loghain felt a shift in the taint, a spike sudden as surprise in the gentle warmth he'd been feeling for a while now. No doubt the brat had finally thought to pay attention to what his own blood was telling him.

The boy gasped and shoved the hound aside, scowling and staring in Loghain's general direction as he scrambled to his feet.

Loghain stepped out of the shadows of the ruined house. Their gazes met.

"Enough of the family reunion," Loghain snapped, overriding the dog's uncertain whine. "You're coming with me."

_"Loghain_." His name sounded like a curse on Maric's bastard's lips. "I'm not going anywhere with you!"

In a shared rush of movement, the brat drew his sword, even as Loghain nocked an arrow and bent his bow. They stared at each other, over the tip of the blade, the point of an arrow. Silence hung between them taut as Loghain's bowstring, broken only by the hound's frantic yelps. The dog turned right and left, not crossing the distance to either man, confused and reluctant to take sides between one companion of his former mistress and the other. "Stay," Loghain snapped at the dog. "Quiet."

At that moment, Loghain felt something kindle in his veins, something much worse than the former warmth: a deep burn like acid in his blood, an aching echo of his Archdemon nightmares. Alistair flinched at the same instant. As one man, they turned and looked out toward the far end of town.

With no more warning than that, monsters appeared from behind the burned-out hulks of distant buildings and came running toward them. Loghain felt as well as saw the darkspawn; his pulse throbbed to the now-familiar beat of the Blight's deadly song and it was maddening and heady and they were coming, closer and closer and then at _last _in range, and Loghain let fly the arrow he'd been holding, along with a mighty shout of defiance.

The lead hurlock collapsed, a feathered shaft sticking from its eye. The ones to either side of it toppled as well, half-stunned by Loghain's cry. Their fall revealed the centre of the crowd of attackers: a tall hurlock with a headdress of bone spikes. _Wonderful, _Loghain snarled, _Probably the only emissary for miles and miles and it had to be here, and it had to be now!_

"Move!" he yelled at the hound and the boy, even as he too ran for cover. Loghain saw the flickers of gathering magic, and then a maelstrom howled toward him as he dodged to one side, reaching for another arrow even as the curse roared past him.

But the darkspawn outnumbered Loghain's arrows; not by many, but it would be enough if the boy fled, since Loghain's sword and shield were back with his horse. So Loghain pulled back, behind the boy who was better armed and armored for close-range combat. Two wardens and a mabari against a group this size stood a chance of survival. Unless the darkspawn summoned more.

The dog leapt, mauling a genlock just as eagerly as he'd jumped the boy a few minutes before. Loghain reached for another arrow, aimed and fired and moved. Reached, aimed, fired, moved. Again. Again. Felling darkspawn with every shot, but it still wouldn't be enough. Not without help.

At least Maric's boy hadn't fled. The lad was still a Grey Warden, wasn't he? Not that that had meant much to the coward at the Landsmeet, but perhaps, when actually faced with the darkspawn, he might manage to be a better Warden than he would have been King. Loghain certainly hoped so; both their lives now depended on it.

Loghain realised somewhere between the seventh arrow (and kill) and the eighth, that he might have underestimated the boy. All at once, the lad lunged forward, charging into the midst of the small horde, beheading one and giving the other a new breathing hole, then going for the emissary in the centre.

_The boy lacks finesse, but I suppose he has spirit,_ Loghain admitted._ Perhaps he did inherit something from his father after all. _But there was more at work here than the famed Theirin stubbornness. Over the growls of mabari and darkspawn and the clash of blades, Loghain heard something else: chanting, panting, hurried and breathless like curses, murmured over and over until the baleful glow of the emissary's glyphs dimmed into the ground._ Of course. The boy was Templar trained, and evidently he's learned enough Templar tricks to stop the emissary casting. _

Loghain saw a flash of silver as the boy hewed wildly, and the emissary's head rolled from its shoulders with a gush of tainted blood.

_...And enough warrior skills to stop it for good._

The darkspawn charged and screamed and died, slashed by sword and mabari fangs, and Loghain did his best to add to the mayhem. His arrows flew through the chaos of battle, dropping darkspawn left and right, but always hissing past the mabari and the boy.

_Maybe we've got a chance now._

That last hurlock with the horned helmet and the war hammer had perhaps been a tall order for Alistair; he'd skewered the thing, but even as it fell the heavy hammer had spun from its hand and clipped the boy in the back of the head. Loghain swore. He was forced to move closer, firing all the while, to keep the last stragglers from killing the boy while he was down.

Closer quarters meant he had to fire faster, with less time between shots to aim or dodge.

_I just hope I've got enough arrows left._

_

* * *

_

"Stay," Loghain told the dog, as he inspected a deep gash in the animal's side. The wound needed a poultice, and cleaning to keep the infection out, but the blood flow had stopped, and the hound wagged his stubby tail at Loghain before he turned to lick the drying blood from his fur.

Behind Loghain the boy groaned and stirred. "Solona?" His eyes opened. Well, they half-opened, and they were crossed. Loghain wasn't sure it counted as being awake, and he was less sure when Alistair grinned hazily up at him and mumbled, "Hi Sten. Did we get 'em?"

Loghain, who'd shot the last few genlocks before they'd had a chance to kill the unconscious boy, didn't bother to answer, unless you counted the way he rolled his eyes.

Not that a spoken answer was needed: the hound's enthusiastic bark was as much of a confirmation as the darkspawn corpses, which Loghain had already checked: cutting throats, looting, and retrieving even broken arrows for their arrowheads.

"We did? Yay!"

Loghain winced. _A decade with the Chantry, and he still grows up into a copy of Cailan. Poor Anora!_

"Whoa." The brat scrubbed his eyes with his fists, like a tired toddler, and blinked. "That was a close one, wasn't it? Uhrrg, did Oghren slip me his special brew? 'Cause I think it wants back out..." He coughed, and squinted up at Loghain.

The sudden widening of his eyes, which were no longer crossed, and the way he staggered to his feet told Loghain that he'd returned to what passed in him for wits. He scowled at Loghain and his hand automatically went for the hilt of his sword. Then he froze with the blade half-drawn and his head tilted to one side, brow furrowed in a puppyish pantomime of thought. Apparently he was trying to work out some extremely difficult puzzles: hopefully ones such as 'Why isn't he attacking me?', not to mention 'Why didn't he kill me when I was unconscious?'

"Um," the boy said at last, ever so eloquently. He let his sword slide back into its sheath, and lifted his hands to pat gingerly at the back of his head. "Ow!" he winced. "I think it brained me."

Loghain hmphed and tossed a poultice at him. "First you'd have to _have _a brain."

Alistair caught the poultice with a practiced swing and put it to proper use. Clearly he went through a lot of them. "Oh, ha, ha, I'm in enough pain already," he grumbled, before sneaking a glance at Loghain without raising his head. "You, uh. I didn't know you could handle a bow. Not bad." He frowned and added defiantly, "For an old man, anyway."

Loghain sneered, but didn't otherwise bother to dignify the cheap jab with a reply.

"Bet Leliana was surprised. No one but her was too keen on bows."

"Are you done reminiscing?" Loghain snapped.

"Yes." The frown was back. "Did Anora send you? Never mind." He shook his head. "This changes nothing!"

"I couldn't agree with you more," Loghain declared briskly, "so we're leaving for Denerim in the morning."

At that, the hound barked and capered. At least someone liked the idea.

"Wait. '_We're_ leaving'?" the boy quoted disbelievingly. "Yeah, right! Go on," he waved one hand in a shooing gesture, "you first, bugger off to the Black City!"

"Wrong answer. Try again," Loghain growled, tightening his grip on the last rags of his patience.

"All right!" The boy's eyes widened in a parody of innocent surprise, "Honestly, what _was_ I thinking?" He mock-slapped his forehead. "I'd best march straight back to Denerim and apologise right away! Because Anora seems like such a _nice _despot!"

_"What_. Did you just say?" Loghain hissed viciously.

"Oh, don't tell me you're so senile you can't remember what I said already? Here, let me make it short and simple, so you'll be sure to follow. One: Denerim. Two: Despot. Three: No!"

Loghain went from cold determination to white-hot fury with a speed that left him lightheaded. Before he knew it he'd knotted both fists in the neck of Alistair's armor and used that hold to yank the brat over so he could get right in that insolent face and roar, "_My daughter_ is not a _despot!_ I should know! _I saved _Ferelden from despots! You spoiled little shit, you can thank _me_ - the lifetime _I've_ spent and the blood _I've_ spilled - for the fact that _you _don't have one. Single. Fucking. Clue. About despots!"

"Rot!" the bastard snarled, "I'm looking right at one!"

Hearing _that _accusation from someone with Maric's face was like falling into seawater, ice-cold, deep and deadly. Loghain released his grip with a shove that sent the brat staggering, and said in tones that were hard as flint for all their quietness, "You don't know the first thing about me."

* * *

At least the little shit had finally stopped struggling with his bonds. As soon as Loghain had managed to boost the still-woozy boy onto the horse, he'd tied his hands to the saddle and shoved the brat's helmet onto his head back-to-front as a makeshift blindfold. By way of repayment for all the work involved in restraining the brat, Loghain was rewarded by blessed silence, as his prisoner sulked all the way past the turn of the road. Loghain allowed himself a triumphant grin as he led the horse by the reins, on the road out of town.

He should've known that the silence wouldn't last for long, not when he was travelling with any of Maric's spawn.

"Hey, where are we? Have you got my sword and shield?" The brat shifted around, extracting a foot from a stirrup, curling his leg around in an attempt to feel for saddlebags. "What if more darkspawn attack? I need to defend myself!"

Loghain growled. "You 'need' to shut up, unless you want me to lock you in the cage by the roadside and leave you for the darkspawn."

"I deserve an answer."

Loghain let a particularly scathing silence express his opinion of that idea.

The silence was broken an all-too-short time later by a whined, "Awww, be like that! See if I care! ...Hey, did you mean the big iron cage? Big enough to hold someone really tall? That was Sten's. Well, Sten didn't _own_ the cage but we found him in it and persuaded the Revered Mother to let him out. Dunno what Solona was thinking, really, he was in there for murder... multiple murder."

Loghain deeply regretted not imprisoning Sten himself, but the spy had been careful to get out of Ferelden the moment the Blight was over. No doubt Sten would report to his generals at once, and Loghain was certain that sooner or later the Qunari would come back to bite Ferelden in the arse.

But for now there were more pressing problems, like the headache that was being brought on by the chirpy idiot's persistent chatter.

"As cages go it must've been pretty solid, I mean, it did hold Sten for quite awhile. Pretty good. Wellll..." he added judiciously, "as good as a slow torture and eventual execution device gets. But... sturdy, that's all you can ask for in a cage, right? Hey, If you lock me up, can you at least leave me my weapons? I'm really, really attached to them."

_Does he not know the value of moderation? Oh wait, Maric's son. Wouldn't know moderation if it hit him in the head with a hammer. _"You're 'attached to' your tongue too," Loghain groused. "That can always be changed."

"Hey, leave my tongue out of this! I'm using it."

"Precisely the problem."

"Not the way I see it… oh wait, I can't see, thanks to you." The whelp tilted his chin up, probably trying to catch a glimpse of the road under the rim of his helmet. Not that there was much to see even if he hadn't been wearing the makeshift blindfold, since the sun had already set. Night came rapidly this far south. "Um, seriously, where are we? I think I'm getting sick, what with all the rocking and the not-seeing-a-thing thing. And if I do get sick, the vomit'll go right up my nose with this thing on my head. Ew. You know, this helmet smells all sweaty inside, which really doesn't help with the not throwing up. ...What's the point of all this anyway? If you'd asked really nicely, I wouldn't've much minded closing my eyes. Just so you know, for later kidnappings." A momentary pause was broken by a yelp. "Ow! That hurt! For your information, your horse is really clumsy; no wonder you let me ride. I didn't even know horses could trip. I bet I've got bruises on my bruises now."

Loghain growled and hauled the helmet off, wishing the thing had muffled the bastard's voice as well as restricting his vision. "We're here."

The brat squinted and looked around cautiously. "Where's... 'here'?"

"Camp."

"Huh," the whelp gave the small clearing a disappointed stare. "What camp? It doesn't look like any camp I've ever been to."

"Oh?"

"Well, yes. There are certain requirements for a camp, you know. For one thing, where's all the tents and the wagons? And the fallen logs around the campfire to sit on? Shale was really good at felling trees and arranging them in this neat circle around the firepit; that golem had a definite flair for exterior decorating. Everyone had their own special log... come to think of it, even Morrigan had a log, though she never used it. Well, don't look at me like that! You've been there, you know the drill. Oh, Maker, they must've given you mine after I left." His eyes narrowed as he demanded: "Well, did they? You know what, don't tell me if they did. I could overlook lots of things from Solona, but the 'Loghain Log'? Just... no."

Loghain resorted to the best antidote to the brat's relentless chatter: he fixed him with a mute, deadly stare.

"What? Oh, and just so you know, a _camp _usually includes a _campfire _in it somewhere, so you can see how I might've been a wee bit confused there at first..."

Loghain drew a dagger from his boot and made a point of resting it on the brat's wrists. After a meaningful pause, Loghain cut the cord that tied his prisoner's hands to the saddle, leaving intact the other rope that formed manacles around his wrists.

The whelp had the decency to gulp. "...uh, only at first... but now I know! Hey, camp! Great!" The corners of his mouth lifted in an annoyingly cheery smile, as he dismounted from the horse, so gracelessly it was almost a fall. "Glad we talked about it."

Loghain bristled. The little sod's false chirpiness was even more irritating than his earlier sulk. It was clear that he didn't actually expect the fake-friendly chatter to get him anywhere, but that didn't stop him from subjecting Loghain to it anyway.

"Campfire site," Loghain growled, pointing out a perfectly serviceable dry, bare patch of ground in the middle of the clearing "Maker's breath, boy, you wouldn't last a day hiding in the woods."

The brat snorted. "I lasted long enough hiding from you."

"And yet here you are," Loghain smirked, nodding at the loops of rope that still bound his prisoner's wrists.

The brat just shrugged. "Well, you know what they say about templars. Why do you think so many maleficarum keep lurking free in the Korcari Wilds, turning people to frogs left and right? See, it's all 'cause of the templars, and all that extra heavy plate they're fond of wearing. And if you think that's unnatural, you should see 'em polishing it every morning. But anyway, the plate makes them terrific at taking blows, and tragic at stealth. Uhhuh. That's the Chantry's finest for you. So, um, it's always so good to be reminded that I haven't lost that special something... I was _this_ close to being a templar, you know. Almost had it too, came up short on the daily chants. But." Alistair continued, cheerful as your average village idiot. "Chantry boy through and through, yeahh, that's me."

"Really?" Loghain spat, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "Nice to know I wasn't being blinded by your Andrastean Fire accidentally!"

"Yeah. Not too fond of the fire actually, too hot, too holy. Gives all the wrong impressions. A bit, well, showy. Like really shiny plate." he added. "Speaking of which, why the new look? Getting too old and feeble for the hard stuff?"

_Oh so the mouthy sod wants to play that game._ "Not too 'old and feeble' for a bit of blade practice," Loghain gave a particularly nasty grin as he slid the Archdemon-fang sword out of a saddlebag and slashed it in the brat's direction. The curved blade hissed through the air between them, so fast it was a white blur.

"Fine! Fine, but, er, how about something a bit more sporting?" Alistair yelped, holding out his roped wrists. "Seriously, now we're 'here'. At _camp_. You've got me where you want me, so... Hands... Free? Pretty pleeease?"

Loghain eyed the brat pointedly up and down. "_I'm _not the one who took a hammer to the head today."

"Oh, come on! What am I going to do, old man? Duel you with my bare hands?"

The boy still seemed dizzy from that hammer and shaky-legged from jolting around on horseback, as Loghain led him to the nearest tree, and tied him to the trunk by running a length of rope through the loops on his wrist. With a scowl of distrust he tugged on the knots, ensuring they were firm.

Loghain whistled and the hound, who'd been diligently watering an elfroot, trotted over. "Watch over him."

The dog barked happily and settled down by Loghain's side.

"Don't listen to him," Alistair grumbled to the mabari. "He's not your owner."

Loghain didn't even bother to answer, beyond a triumphant smirk. The fact that the mabari was here, lying obediently beside him, said more than any words could. He scratched the dog's head and the stumpy tail wagged so hard the hound's hindquarters wagged with it.

That ought to have made the situation clear enough, even to someone as blockheaded as this brat.

* * *

When Alistair was a boy, he locked himself in a mabari cage once. The cage was as high as his chin and as wide as his open arms, and he was terribly curious about how it would feel to stare out at the world from inside the bars, as the hounds did. And besides, how could Alistair find a way out if he didn't find a way in first? A way in turned out to be easy. The other way around, well, he spent a whole fun day figuring that part out.

Rope was trickier. Oh, there was plenty of rope in the stables and with the hounds, but no matter how much he tried, he couldn't tie a proper knot over his wrists to see if he could then get out of it. He didn't play rope games particularly often, but they occupied him for hours; he had no other toys, so he had to make his own fun.

These objects he turned into toys as a child were plain and physical; they left indentations in his wrists and turned his fingers numb and cold if he didn't flex them every so often. And as he grew older, he came to understand that there was a restraint that was harsher than rope, even the rope the templars used to leash young mages and drag them to the Tower. There was an imprisonment that was more punishing than cages, even the cages that Arl Eamon used to hold poachers and thieves. It was invisible and everywhere and impossible to avoid: the slavery and the torture that people forced on each other all the time. Such restraints and imprisonments were unspoken, unmentionable and thus all but unbreakable. Responsibilities and restrictions, status and ownership, bloodlines and debt were more restrictive than ropes, more confining than cages. Alistair figured out early on that he could struggle against all those unfair, unjust, and unbearable rules, and scream 'til he was hoarse or fight 'til he was weak, and he'd only end up with a sore head or worse, if he met them head on.

Or he could talk. And pretend.

Talking was easy. He could talk about nonsensical, meaningless things, about the weather or the view. He could smile and play nice and joke around and be patient. Talking helped more, in a way. It distracted the weavers of unseen ropes and the welders of untouchable cages. And it kept him sane, until he was ready to twist out of the rope and unlock the cage that kept him prisoner. Then suddenly, in one brilliant, amazing moment, he'd break free of it all, and leave those bastards behind him for good.

Alistair was terrible at puzzles, but this - restraining himself until he'd found a way out of others' restraints - well, sometimes Alistair got lucky when it counted.

It worked with the Chantry, didn't it? Alistair played along like a good little templar boy, mumbling all the right chants and not sticking his neck out, hanging on just long enough to meet Duncan. And that was all Alistair needed: that one solitary chance to shine, to show Duncan that he could be more. Alistair _needed_ to be more. There had to be more to life than this drudgery and disappointment. Had to be. Or Alistair would've gone insane trying to fit into that life and failing.

Solona had understood that same urge for more, that very same fear of being locked into the cage of the world's expectations, but then she'd had her own share of cages, fit for a mage, in the Circle Tower.

And Duncan... Alistair didn't know what cage Duncan had escaped from, but strangely enough, Duncan understood Alistair. He made Alistair a Grey Warden. He set Alistair free from his own cage.

And so, as his arms were stretched backward around the tree, and the bark rasped against the hammer-sized lump on the back of his head, Alistair focused on Duncan's shield. Loghain had set it to one side with Alistair's sword, as he unpacked food from a saddlebag. The griffin crest was sharply defined against the shield's silverite, bright as a beacon in the glimmer from the small campfire. Alistair kept his gaze on that shield, that griffin, as he held back, as he saved his strength, waiting for the time to pass, waiting for the campfire to burn low, waiting for Loghain to fall asleep, as sooner or later he'd have to do.

And then, maybe, Alistair would get lucky one more time.

* * *

Loghain awoke with a jolt. A single frantic glance around the dawn-grey clearing told him the worst. His horse was gone. So were his saddlebags, his mabari, and his prisoner!

_That thieving bastard! I _knew _I should've locked him in that cage!_


	3. The Canticle of Shartan

**Chapter 3: The Canticle of Shartan**

It turned out that the campground wasn't completely empty. No, Alistair had left the ropes, probably as a taunt. They were lying draped around the tree, their ends thoroughly chewed and still damp with dog drool.

_Even my damn dog can't be trusted around him! If Anora didn't have a use for him, I'd strangle the bastard with my bare hands!_

Fortunately, Loghain still had his quiver and bow. They'd been lying right beside him as he slept; presumably that bloody thief hadn't dared to try and steal them too, and risk waking him.

As he rolled up the ropes, swearing under his breath, he noticed that he'd been left something else. A waterskin and the dried fruit from his supplies lay on one of his maps: the map of Denerim. It was a taunt as obvious as the ropes: evidently Alistair thought him a feeble enough hunter - an old man, as the brat was so fond of pointing out - that he'd need help not to starve as he made his way back to Denerim on his own, consulting the map at every turn of the road. The very picture of a spoiled noble caught outside without servants or guides, or an entire personal army to serve to his whims...

_As if that's ever going to happen! I'd sooner swagger about in Cailan's gilt armor than adopt any of his abysmal habits._

Despite the possessive snarl on Loghain's face, his hands moved with care as he picked up the map and examined its parchment for stains or tears. He almost wished there were some, so he'd have a reason to flay the bastard and make a replacement map out of his hide.

Not that he needed his tracking skills to tell where Maric's whelp was headed: it was precisely the opposite way to where he should've been going.

_Bloody typical._

Loghain was pleasantly surprised to catch up to his horse by midday, though the reason he'd managed to make up the distance so soon had nothing to do with any skill of his. The horse wasn't moving any faster than a walk, but even at that sedate pace, the rider still had all the grace of a sack of potatoes in the saddle. Loghain was forcibly reminded of Maric, who all his life had been hopeless on a horse. Pausing only to string his bow, Loghain closed the distance steadily, using the avenue of trees that lined the highway to stay out of sight until he was within earshot. Then he let out a brief burst of ear-piercing whistles in a carefully chosen tempo and pitch. In response to the signal, the warhorse reared at once, forehooves lashing the air in a well-trained battle maneuver. The sudden move deprived the incompetent rider of what little balance he had, and he toppled from the saddle with a cry of dismay.

Before the sprawled man could get up, Loghain loosed an arrow that buried itself in the road dust right by one outflung hand: it was both an announcement of Loghain's presence and a warning not to run. Alistair froze, staring at the arrow, and, when no more followed, he sat up and saw Loghain striding down the road toward him, bow drawn, another arrow ready to fly. "Ohhh no," Alistair groaned as he struggled unsteadily to his feet. "Not you again!"

The horse, relieved of its burden, trotted jauntily up to Loghain and nudged him with its nose.

As a side bonus to the whistle, the dog bounded out of the bushes nearby, as exuberant as a pup to see Loghain. But, reluctant to share Alistair's fate and be bowled off his feet by one of the dog's enthusiastic greetings, Loghain barked "Sit!"

The dog parked his furiously-wagging behind on the ground, lolling out his tongue in an utterly unabashed grin.

By the time Maric's bastard dusted himself off, Loghain stood there, strung bow slung over his shoulder where he could wield it at a moment's notice, the horse's reins and the dog's collar firmly gripped.

"Had enough of playing horsethief?" Loghain growled.

"You know what, this is getting tiresome, old man -"

"Oh, 'tiresome', is it?" Loghain cut him off, dropping reins and collar and striding up to Alistair. "Tell me, how tiresome is it to be a coward and a traitor to the crown? Whinging like a spoiled child at the first sight of duties. Abandoning your responsibility the moment things don't turn out exactly as you want. Come ON, boy! You're lucky I've spared you more times than I can count, but I've coddled you long enough." The steely clamor of a war cry rang in Loghain's voice. "You WILL march right back to Denerim and take your place supporting my daughter, and you WILL beg her forgiveness -"

The war cry rocked Alistair backward like a powerful blow, and he only managed to keep his feet by grabbing Loghain's shoulders. "NO!" he roared back, and it was Loghain's turn to stagger as he felt the full brunt of the holy rage that templars used to smite a foe. Now the tables were turned and Alistair's grip on Loghain was the main thing keeping him on his feet. "You _expected_ a spoiled child so that's _exactly_ what I gave you! And what did it get you? Nothing but a day's detour down the same road. And you - you don't know how lucky you are! Maker's breath, if you weren't already conscripted I'd execute you myself! Oh, I _wish_ I could, but that wasn't what Duncan taught me. He taught me that Grey Wardens are family. And dishonoring _that_ isn't worth the satisfaction of sending your soul to the Fade with the rest of the demons, you miserable. Wretched. Waste. Of taint!"

Loghain snorted, centering his stance and shaking Alistair's hands off his shoulders. _Who knew that someone so fond of running away actually has some sort of a spine? I suppose that secretive sonofabitch Duncan was good for something after all._ He bared his teeth in a morbid parody of a grin. "Impressive," he drawled, and it was anyone's guess whether he was being slyly mocking or dryly genuine. "You might even make a king after all... _if _you survive."

Alistair's face twisted in a grimace. "Are you deaf? I'm a bastard! Oh, stop smirking and _listen _to me! I wasn't raised to be Maric's son, I wasn't _raised_ at all! First I was shoved in a stable, and then I was thrown to the templars! My father was noble, but _I'm not_. I don't understand anything about nobles, how they think, how they make alliances and stop wars and balance trade and gather taxes and dispense justice and all the other things. And for a king to do his job, he'd have to understand all of that, and more." Alistair's eyes narrowed. "...Or don't you _care _if Ferelden's stuck with a king who doesn't have a clue what he's doing? Do you _want _someone on the throne, who's completely lost at court? Do you want a "king" who's so out of his depth he'll be easier to make into your puppet, or Anora's?"

"Of course I don't want that," Loghain snapped, nettled at Alistair's accusations, mostly because he _had _considered the idea of a puppet king: considered it, and then dismissed it. "Cailan didn't have the vaguest idea how to _rule._ All he knew was how to be superficially charming and how to look good in gilt armor, and in his time as king he certainly didn't do Ferelden any favours. If it weren't for Anora, doing all the work of monarchy and getting damn little of the credit, Ferelden would've descended into anarchy mere months after Cailan took the throne."

Alistair scowled, "So you waited until it was convenient and left him - left Duncan, left all of us - to die, so you can rule Ferelden your way."

"I did nothing of the sort!" Loghain hissed, stepping up so they were practically nose to nose. "I _told _Cailan all the reasons why being in the vanguard of the army was suicide. I _asked _him not to throw his life away. If it would've stood the faintest chance of changing his mind, I would have _begged _him not to go!"

"You. _Beg_ him?" Alistair scoffed.

"_Yes._" Loghain answered simply, and let the truth stand."But Cailan's mind was already made up. Nothing I said made any impression on him. And do you know _why _he was so determined to be at the forefront of the fight? Because that's where the Grey Wardens would be. Because he wanted to fight darkspawn in their company. Because your precious Duncan had so filled his impressionable mind with legends of the Wardens and their heroic prowess, that Cailan was utterly obsessed. He was smitten by the tales that Duncan spun for him, and he followed them - followed Duncan - to his death. And if _I_ hadn't led _my _part of the army to safety - after _you_ failed to light the beacon in time - then Cailan would have taken _all_ of Ferelden's military with him, into useless death."

"Wait," Alistair's eyes narrowed. "'_We _failed'? Oh, nono_NO_! That beacon was lit! Bright and clear for all to see! We made great time, and if you don't believe me you can go and ask the dead ogre at the top of that tower. It _was_ lit and it _stayed_ lit! We made damn sure of it! We almost died for it! But you..." He stared at Loghain, and his gaze was dark and damning. "you can't even take responsibility for you own bloody choice."

"Cailan's choice condemned his part of the army to death," Loghain replied in a voice as level and hard as bedrock. "My 'own bloody choice' _saved _mine. Given the same circumstances, I'd make the same choice again. How is that not 'taking responsibility'? Or am I to be held responsible for King Cailan's choices as well as my own? Should I have thrown away all the lives under my command, for no military goal, merely to salvage your illusions about Cailan's heroism, or Duncan's?"

"Enough!" At the mention of his Grey Warden commander, Alistair's face twisted predictably into an outraged, reddened grimace. "Duncan _was_ a hero. A true hero. All the way to his death. You will _not _use his name to excuse your cowardice!"

Loghain's eyes narrowed. "Tell me," he asked quietly, "what exactly is your definition of a 'true hero'? I'd really like to know. Because from where I'm standing, Duncan didn't just beguile Cailan to his death, he hung recruits like you out to dry. Solona told me that she had to learn everything from Riordan. Duncan didn't tell her - or you - the formula for the Joining. He didn't even tell his own recruits why Wardens are necessary to stop Blights, any more than he told Ferelden's King!"

"Of course he didn't! Who would expect your troops to stroll out and abandon the rest of us to be slaughtered on the very first battle. He was out of time."

"'Out of time!'" Loghain quoted scathingly. "Bullshit! How much time does it take to explain? A minute? Two? Nothing excuses Duncan's secrecy! That was vital strategic knowledge, that the king of a country threatened by a Blight had every right to know! And I know for a fact that Cailan never even suspected the truth." A bitter laugh burst from Loghain; he was appalled to realise it sounded almost like a stifled sob. "Did you know, Cailan carried Maric's sword with him to Ostagar? But he didn't wield it in that final battle, ohh no. He told me he was _saving it for the Archdemon_. As if Cailan had a hope of stopping the Blight himself, that poor deluded sonofa..." Abruptly Loghain's throat closed; he turned away from Alistair, his entire face clenched in a thunderous scowl. Better that than let all that buried pain burst the dam.

An awkward pause hung between them. All was quiet, and then the sound of a cleared throat broke the silence. "No," Alistair said. "I didn't know, actually. I guess I'll see for myself soon... Er, look -"

A burst of barking overrode whatever Alistair was going to say next. The hound was facing away from them, growling and barking furiously.

They weren't alone.

* * *

Bad Brad was the biggest, baddest boss bandit along this stretch of the Imperial Highway. He knew it because he'd beaten the shit out of all of the other members of his bandit gang at one time or another, and because all of the half-starved refugees that came this way last season had cowered before his brutal badness and begged for his mercy. So of course he'd had to kill them all in inventively messy ways, just to impress the boys in the gang.

So when he'd walked over that last hill and spotted the two men arguing in the middle of _his _stretch of highway, he'd swaggered closer, drawing his big, bad two-hander with a nice slow _shinnng _of sharp steel. He propped the claymore on his hip and struck a pose, angling the blade so the sun glinted off it for maximum menace. He drew a deep breath, and delivered The Line. The one that made burly farmboys shiver and ladies shriek.

"Your money or your life!" Brad gave his nastiest sneer. "... Oops," he added insincerely, "I get that wrong every time. I meant to say: Your money AND your life!"

There was the usual appreciative chuckles from the gang, but this time there was nothing from the victims. Nothing. The lads' chuckles trailed off, and for a long, weird moment it felt as though everything had frozen. Then, with pointed slowness, two heads, dark and fair, swivelled in his direction. Two pairs of eyes, pale and dark, fixed him in a stare that should've been glazed with fear, but wasn't. Instead, it reminded Brad of when he was just a kid, and he'd made the mistake of interrupting Mum and her latest man in their daily brawls. Mum had been every bit as likely to tan his arse as the men had.

The two travellers sighed wearily and turned to face him, their movements dragging as though they were facing a humdrum duty, not the Terror of the Imperial Highway and his Desperado Gang. Both of them stared him up and down. Neither of them looked at all impressed at what they saw.

The old one drawled in supremely bored tones, "Fuck off."

The youngster, who was the only one actually armored, eyerolled and added, "Seriously. While you still can."

Brad swallowed. Then he scowled, furious that his throat had gone dry without his permission. Two travellers, against him, his two-hander, and his whole gang of cutthroats? They should've been pissing their pantaloons, like all his other victims had done. He pasted a ferocious snarl on his face and sneered, "Ohhh, are we _interrupting _something? You two lovebirds having a little domestic spat?" The gang chimed in obligingly with another chorus of laughter.

"Yes, yes. Ha-ha." The youngster spoke up. "You've had you fun. Now turn around and leave like good little minions."

Brad's sneer widened. Behind him, the lads growled and drew weapons.

The two travellers exchanged glances, and a nod of agreement.

Then they _moved_, faster than any man could move, and everything went to shit. There was a shout like thunder or a shield to the face and a blur of fur and fangs and the lads were screaming instead of laughing and Deadly Dirk dropped like a felled tree and arrows were everywhere and was that whimper Billy the Butcher? The youngster was chanting like them templar fuckers oh _shit_ "Edric, RUN!"_ Mage's no good if he can't hex..._

_Where's the old one?_

Brad never saw the arrow, so he was really confused when everything went hazy and wobbly, like the air over a fire. He only realised what had happened when his late unlamented Mum appeared. "Bradley!" she shrieked, "You've been a very bad boy!"

_I'm in the Fade! … Does it mean it's all... over?_

"Bugger," Brad said. That pretty much summed it up.

* * *

_Whew. That's all of them, I'm pretty sure. _Alistair straightened up and pulled his blade out of some poor sod's gut. Behind his back, he'd heard Loghain grumble, "Do you know the meaning of stealth at all? Standing in the middle of the Imperial Highway and shouting your head off; what a brilliant idea! And you wonder why those bandits found us..."

"Yeah, yeah..."_ Wait! _The bushes rustled. Alistair's eyes went to the road... _I could've sworn there was a mage. Where is he? Not lying in the ditch with the others, that's for sure._

Alistair gripped the hilt of his sword tighter and stared at the bushes.

_Right, best keep the chant going. Better safe than sorry. _

_How bad can one mage be if he's run off already... but what if he hasn't? Fine. Ho-hum, I'd better concentrate. Holy thoughts. … blessed are the peacekeepers... - Bleargh, _Benedictions_ is boring as sin - ...the champions of the just... _Alistair glanced at the nearby corpse, thinking that it looked like a porcupine, what with all those arrows in it. His smile widened as he switched to something more appropriate for the occasion. _… though stung with a hundred arrows, though suffering something-something great and small... How'd it go again? Oh, blast it._

"At Shartan's word, the sky grew black with arrows," a verse Alistair actually liked came to mind, "... ten thousand swords rang from their sheaths..."

A good find it was. Dissonant Verse or not, with the right tempo and beat, Shartan's Canticle dampened magic just as well as any other. And unlike a lot of other verses, it didn't drone on about the blessings of the righteous or heaven's wrath. Shartan and all of his archer elves were proper heroes, like Duncan. And even if the Chantry had declared that verse forbidden, the Chantry wasn't here to hear. Loghain probably had as much to do with the Chantry as the dog did. He wouldn't know Dissonant Verses if he heard them. Alistair was safe.

So he took great pleasure in reciting all about the Valarian Fields, as he examined the bushes from another angle.

Alistair was prepared for the lash of a hex or the slash of a knife. What he wasn't prepared for were his words echoed back at him. Bushes weren't supposed to echo like that, nor did they speak, nor did they recite the highly forbidden Canticle of Shartan _back_ at Alistair.

Alistair peered past all the leaves into the center.

A small elf with a thick branch for a makeshift staff stared back. The elf cowered away from Alistair, his eyes wide and dark and scared as any kid's. All the while, the boy was mumbling that same verse about the big elven hero who'd been stricken from the Chantry's approved Chant.

_Huh._ _Younger than Solona... _Alistair thought, as he met that uncertain, shifty gaze._ And what are the odds... where'd he even hear that verse? Not that he's going to get much of a chance to hear more. For a hedge mage, he's rotten at picking hedges to hide behind. Any templar worth his chants will find him, and squash him like a bug. _

"Are you going to gape at the corpses till nightfall? Loot them already!" Loghain yelled from the distance. "Or are you waiting for more of those ever so scary bandits to find us?"

Alistair narrowed his eyes. "All right. All done," he shouted back. And then he sheathed his sword and turned his back on the bush. "All done, all dead..."

_Wouldn't hurt to leave the kid. Seems like he's got a good head on his shoulders... _A year before, Alistair probably wouldn't have left him, but travelling with Solona and Wynne and Leliana had taught him to rebel, just a little. Besides, the boy and he had just committed secret heresy together...

_Oh, fine, just this once. For Shartan's sake. _With a smile on his lips, Alistair started to walk away...

A cage of magic slammed down all around him and he was yanked off the ground, dangling helpless in midair like a hanged man, agonised, pressure like an ogre's fist crushing the air from his lungs; he couldn't chant, or speak, or even breathe.

_Ow. Ow. OW! Damn!_ Alistair felt himself blacking out. _Spirit damage... He's draining me!_

He was growing dizzy from lack of air when he saw a dark blur of movement, saw Loghain's fierce snarl as he drew, aimed and shot in one smooth reflex. Then did it again.

Alistair's senses were overloaded with the sheer intensity of being slowly restrained, not by rope, not in cages, but by crushing columns of sheer magical force. His heart pounded, his lungs burned and he saw white, and then the spell cut off, with the suddenness and speed that only meant the death of the caster - or 'mage, pacified', as templars said. Alistair fell out of his agonised hover, and his shaking limbs folded under the shock of his own weight. He collapsed to the ground, chest heaving ecstatically for air, sweet _air!_ When at last his gasping slowed, he blinked up through the dizziness, and met Loghain's heated gaze.

Alistair's heart was racing. His breath was panting past parted lips. His blood was hot in his face, tingling in his fingers, throbbing in his sprawled limbs. He'd never felt more _alive_.

He'd never realised before how intense one man's stare could be.

* * *

"What in Thedas made you lose your focus enough to almost lose your damnfool _life?_"

"He, uh... he chanted Verse at me." Alistair croaked. _ It's true. More or less. Dissonant...Verse. _

"So he _chanted_," Loghain snapped, hard-eyed and agitated. "Brilliant! Now maybe can you finally get it through your thick templar skull that in battle everyone's out for himself! So unless you _know for certain_ that someone's on your side, then no matter what they say or do to keep themselves alive, you can't trust anyone!"

"I know, I do!" Alistair _knew_, dammit. He did. He wasn't a child, and he'd been through a lot and made some damn hard choices along the way. Still, this stung. The kid who'd cursed him was just a few years older than Eamon and Isolde's son. Actually, after Connor, Alistair ought to have known how dangerous a rogue mage could be. But... what about Morrigan? She was about as close to maleficar as they came, and yet, even though she was a wicked, wanton bitch, even he had to admit she wasn't _evil_. She'd saved all their lives, including his own, at one time or another. So how was Alistair supposed to draw the line between evil mages and good? He couldn't.

And neither could the templars. So they just assumed that all mages were evil until proven good. They dragged them away from their families and friends and locked them all in a glorified cage, and only let them out once in a while, if they'd been model prisoners.

But Solona had taught Alistair that this was wrong; not by preaching at him, but by the example of her life. Mages were no more evil than anyone else. If everyone else were treated like mages, the whole world would be one huge cage.

So, Alistair had used his father's name to unlock the cage door and throw away the key. He'd made his position clear when he'd pressed the issue of self-governance of the new Circle Tower with the templars' Knight-Commander. It was the least he could do for Wynne, for all the others... in Solona's memory. The mages were free to think for themselves now. No one deserved to be a templar puppet and prisoner, and without their jailors the mages could finally lead some sort of a life. Alistair was only too glad to see it happen.

"And by the way," Alistair told Loghain, who was about to turn away, "stop calling me a templar." Although the words seemed simple, it felt like he was turning a new leaf on life. "I'm not."

"Oh?" Loghain glanced up from going through the pockets of the latest corpse, "Could've fooled me, what with all that templar talk and templar chants, and your 'Chantry boy' ways."

Alistair winced, and it wasn't just because of the calmly methodical way Loghain recovered his arrows. What had he said to Loghain yesterday? 'Chantry boy, through and through.' But he hadn't been planning to stick around long enough for Loghain to bring it up. Yesterday, he hadn't _cared_ if Loghain had thought he was an Archdemon short of a Blight. Today... well, today was different. They'd fought, but then they'd fought _together_, and what with one thing and another, it looked as though maybe he was going to see more of Loghain than he'd planned.

And of course Loghain just had to go and _remember _his babble from yesterday, as if it had meant anything. Talk about awkward!

Alistair sighed. "If I _were _a templar, I'd be terrible at it. Every templar I've ever known is self-righteous, and they treat the mages like cattle or worse." He waved his hands about, to emphasise the utter wreck of the situation. "_Ugh_! Why would anyone get off on keeping a mage on a leash?"

Loghain gave Alistair an oddly assessing look. "Not one for holding onto leashes, are you?" he said in a strange, low drawl. He drew breath as if to say more, but apparently thought better of it.

Alistair shrugged off the weird remark. "No. Not really. If I hadn't been conscripted, I still wouldn't have taken the vows. I would've come up with something."

"Yes, you would've run away." Loghain said with a sarcastic twist to his lips. "That does appear to be your primary talent..." Loghain bestowed him the sort of disappointed look which Alistair was used to getting from the Revered Mother, or Wynne, not Loghain Mac Tir. "... so far."

"You don't know anything about me!" Alistair bristled. _Wynne's allowed to give me disappointed looks, he isn't!_

"Oh, you'd be surprised," Loghain tilted his head, and was that a smirk? Alistair disliked Loghain's smirk as well. "The apple doesn't fall far from the tree."

"I didn't _fall_ from that tree, I was tossed out, all the way past the fence. Look, I already told you," Alistair sneered, "I just wasn't raised to be royalty."

Loghain shook his head impatiently, "I wasn't talking about how you were raised, or what you do or don't know about nobles or politics or ruling a country. I was talking about _you_. I knew Maric long before he was king, back when he was an orphaned boy running from his mother's murderers. But even then, he was already a stubborn hothead."

"Yeah, well, he grew out of it, I hope..." Alistair bit his lip as Loghain checked the horse's saddle, called the dog over. _I am not a hothead,_ he thought. _And I'm not stubborn either, no matter what he remembers about my father, I'm not him. And I'll prove it to him! _"Um, listen. You can try tying me up again and sticking me on that horse, but I'll fight you. And you might get wounded... or I might. And if you're wounded you won't be able to track me, and if I'm wounded I certainly won't be in any shape to marry your daughter or wear that crown. I'm already sore from riding that horrible nag you call a warhorse. So." Alistair took a deep breath. "How about this. I will follow you to Denerim. Willingly. But we _have _to take a detour first. Anora's waited this long, she can wait another week." _Ostagar first. And as for later? A lot of things can happen in seven days._

Loghain's eyes narrowed to distrustful slits. "And just where does this 'detour' go?" he inquired in too-light tones.

"Ostagar."

"'Ostagar.'" Loghain echoed flatly. He folded his arms.

Alistair sighed. _This whole persuasion thing is harder than I thought._ "Yes. It's close, and there are things there that we need. First, there's the king's sword, you mentioned it yourself. And as wel as that, there are artifacts that belong to Grey Wardens. It's about time they were recovered." _There,_ Alistair thought with satisfaction. _He can't argue with that. The way the greedy sod hunts down every stray arrow, he simply won't stand for leaving anything behind._

Loghain gave Alistair a scathing look. "So, you want my help in this adventure of yours. But how can I trust you not to run again, the second we head for Denerim?"

"I said, I won't run," Alistair assured him hotly. "I give you my word." He stared at Loghain and hoped that everything he'd proposed was enough to make Loghain see sense.

Otherwise, they'd both be playing hare and hound all over this particular piece of Ferelden 'til Wintermarch.

* * *

_I'd wondered how long it'd take him to bring up Ostagar... still, it's been fun pulling the brat's chain and watching him squirm, _Loghain thought. _I suppose a week's not too bad. I'd probably lose a week wrangling the stubborn sod back to Denerim anyway if he didn't cooperate_.

"My word's good," Alistair added, when the silence had gone on long enough.

At last, Loghain smirked. "Is it now? We'll see, then, won't we?" He stuck out his gloved hand._ Might as well do this properly. _

Alistair eyed it and then cautiously extended his. "All right then. To Ostagar!"

"To _Denerim, through_ Ostagar," Loghain clarified, before he took and shook the offered hand. "By the way," he added quickly, "Five days' time should be more enough for this detour of yours. We're on a schedule."

_It took my troops five days for a round trip through these parts and that was more than generous. _

_Ostagar... Next best thing to the Black City. And here I thought I'd never have to travel this Maker-forsaken part of Ferelden again. _Loghain sighed. _Hopefully this is the very last time._

* * *

**Footnotes**

The Chant of Light which Alistair usually uses to power his templar abilities used to contain quite a number of excised and banned parts (Dissonant Verse) including Verse 10:1 from the Canticle of Shartan. The mention of the elf struck a nerve with the Chantry during the Exalted March on the Dales and thus Shartan was conveniently struck out from the official versions many ages ago, and now only the historians, enthusiast scholars, and interested bards would know the relevant verses.

Wintermarch is Ferelden's version of January according to the calendar.


	4. The Map Case

**CHAPTER 4: The Map Case**

"Maybe Ostagar will take us five days, maybe more, we'll see," Alistair said to Loghain. "It'll take as long as it takes." At last, things were looking up. Anything was possible. Loghain might almost be bearable, when he wasn't forcibly dragging Alistair away from his goal. It was so good to fight alongside someone again, especially when said someone really knew how to fight. But despite all the help in battle, Alistair felt exhausted - as if he'd herded an entire flock of stubborn goats over a fence - after persuading Loghain to go along with his pilgrimage to Ostagar.

"I can't think of anything in Ostagar that'd delay us further than five days," Loghain muttered as he turned to his horse and started opening the saddlebags, cramming in loot from the bandits. Abruptly the activity stopped. There was an ominous pause, before Loghain spun to glare at Alistair. "Where's my map case?"

"Er..." Alistair felt his palms starting to sweat. "Your what?"

"My map case. Hard leather cylinder, _this _long and _this _thick, rounded cap at one end, containing the rest of my maps. The one in which this map," Loghain drew a meticulously rolled piece of parchment from his quiver, "should have remained undisturbed."

_Maps! Ohh, so it wasn't all scrap parchment. Oops. _Alistair tried his best not to look guilty, even though he suspected that his best wasn't nearly good enough.

Loghain arched an eyebrow. _"Well?"_

"Um, were they important?" Alistair asked in a small voice.

"They're _maps_," Loghain grated. Despite the quiet tone, his expression was thunderous. A vein on his forehead started to throb. "Of course they're important!"

"I... er." _This probably won't go over well... I really, really, should've thought that through._ "I just took a quick glance inside and didn't think anyone needed a roll of parchments, and it was pretty big, and I needed room in your saddlebags for my own stuff, so I sort of - left it." Alistair uncurled his fingers and scratched the back of his head, hoping his hand wasn't shaking visibly.

Loghain's eyes narrowed to slits. "Where. _Precisely_. Are my _maps?_"

"Lothering, or just outside. One of your saddlebags came off with me when I fell off your horse. The first time. That's when I repacked it, it was really too full." Alistair stammered. "But, er, you know, we could just go on to Ostagar and then swing by on the way back to pick your maps, right? Now, let's go," he suggested breathlessly, desperate to change the subject. "That way. Come on. I know how to get to Ostagar without a map by now, and you really should too."

It was probably the wrong thing to say. One moment, Loghain was glaring at Alistair, frozen in outraged disbelief, and then there was a blur of movement and a _hissssTHUD_ that Alistair felt from his gut to his toes. An arrow appeared like magic, its head buried in the tree right behind him. Its shaft still quivered between Alistair's legs, high enough to suggest unimaginable discomfort with its mere presence.

First, Alistair stared down at the feathery fletching of the arrow still shivering from impact, and then he stared up, wide-eyed and almost as shaky, at Loghain.

Loghain bared his teeth in a wicked smile. "If you can add a detour, so can I," he purred. "Lothering." He gave a sideways jerk of the head, without breaking eye contact. "_That _way."

"OK," Alistair croaked, weak-kneed, as he eased himself off the arrow.

"You'd best pray, like a good little _not-quite-_Templar, that you can find my maps, and that they're still undamaged. And don't break my arrow getting it out of that tree, if you want fresh meat tonight."

* * *

There used to be a time Alistair rather liked archers. Actually, he used to admire them, a bit. OK, maybe a lot. Archers were all right. Especially those led by that elven bloke, Shartan. Those were more than all right. Brilliant, actually. The greatest. And Shartan wasn't bad either, leading that entire group into battle, like a true hero. Armed only with a bow himself. That took guts.

Alistair hadn't learned about Thane Shartan until he was far away from the Chantry's libraries and reading halls. Leliana had been the one to tell him of the leader of the elven slaves: it was while they were in the Brecilian Forest, talking at night over a campfire built with the remains of wild sylvans.

Alistair had been surprised to see Shartan amid the ghosts guarding Andraste's ashes. Shartan's yearning for a home, a place for his people, resonated deeply with Alistair, who'd never really known a true home of his own.

It was only afterwards that Alistair had the chance to do his own reading about Shartan, in the books of the dragon cult temple. He'd been intrigued to find that those volumes contained versions of the Chant that Alistair didn't even know existed. He'd memorised them then, with full knowledge that the verses he'd committed to memory were excised.

Did it make him a heretic? Well then, Alistair could add 'heretic' to his long list of sins, like 'associating with a budding maleficar' or 'advising a blood mage'. _What's one more on the list? Shartan's sacrifice is important to remember. It's worth it._

Then Loghain came along, with that bow he'd produced out of nowhere. _Since when did _he _know how to shoot?_ At the Landsmeet, Loghain had used sword and shield, in an 'in your face' combat style much like Alistair's own. Fortunately, Solona's magic had been up to Loghain's challenge, though when it came down to magical lightning against a lightning-fast sword, it had been a heartstoppingly narrow thing.

Anyway, thanks to Loghain, Alistair's previously cavalier opinion of arrows, formed over months of experience from all sorts of archers, was altered by one single shot from Loghain: from 'hey, lookit that, it's raining twigs today,' to 'MAKER! GONNA DIE!'

A bloke didn't forget even one arrow, not when it had been fired with enough expertise to tickle his family jewels, _without _actually hurting anything. Because that sort of selectivity implied that, next time, such extraordinary mercy could always be withheld.

Alistair swallowed, and wished that thought didn't make him tingle all over, as if he'd fallen into an icy mountain stream. As if he could still feel that ominous vibration, right _there_.

All right, maybe arrows were wicked and more dangerous than Alistair ever thought they could be. It certainly made him rethink the verse with 'ten thousand arrows' in it, and made him wonder what damage one arrow instead of ten thousand could do in the right hands. Or the wrong ones.

Alistair's new reassessment of arrows made Shartan's followers - who'd supposedly fought with makeshift bows and knives - even more awesome, despite it all. Or maybe because of it all. And Loghain... Alistair would go and get the maps back, _not _because Loghain had scared him into it, but because Alistair was a responsible man and it was up to him to fix his mistake. And afterwards, as far as Alistair was concerned, Loghain could go shove his arrow somewhere much tighter than a quiver.

* * *

They'd made it back to the already familiar ruins just after sundown. Loghain was walking beside Alistair, and the horse was laden with both their belongings - minus one map case - as well as new sacks of loot, courtesy of the bandits. Loghain could have ridden, but he was sparing the horse the added burden, by way of apology to the poor beast for having spent the morning putting up with such a shockingly bad rider as Alistair. _I suppose even Maric - and his golden boys - have to do _one _thing badly._ Loghain sighed and contemplated Maric's later years, and the way he'd run away from the kingship to follow Duncan into the Deep Roads, leaving Loghain to babysit his kingdom and his bewildered, grieving young son. And then his mind reluctantly turned to what he'd spent a lifetime trying _not _to remember: how Maric had betrayed Rowan - _Rowan_, who was a better woman than any man deserved - first with that traitor Katriel, then with whoever had borne this bastard._ ...One or _more _things badly,_ he amended grimly.

Said bastard's voice broke into Loghain's thoughts, an interruption that for once wasn't entirely unwelcome, since it took his mind off his brooding. "I think the first time I fell off was around here..." Alistair muttered as they rounded yet another turn of the road, "...yeah, I'm sure it was. And I chucked the case into that field over there. Oh, look!"

Loghain followed the line of Alistair's pointing hand, toward a scarecrow standing forlornly in the midst of what had once been a ploughed field and was now a sea of mud and blackened seedlings. Something cylindrical was hanging off the dead twig of the scarecrow's arm.

"Huh. S'pose I tossed it a bit further than I thought. " He turned to give Loghain a triumphant grin, still bright even in the gloaming. "See, told you I'd find it!" As Loghain tethered the horse and ordered the dog to stay put, Alistair clambered over a waist high drystone wall and started to slog through the muddy field beyond.

"Watch out," Loghain called out as he caught a glint of metal in the worst of the mud. "Traps."

"Huh? What do you mean, 'traps'? Who'd put traps in the middle of a field?"

"Just keep still!" Loghain was glad he'd told the mabari to stay and guard the horse, or he would've had two impertinent pups to drag out of danger.

Loghain's hand was firm as he nocked an arrow, drew his bow and aimed. He focused on the solitary, still target, seeing the arrow's path clear as a ray of sunlight: straight into the crook of Alistair's exposed shoulder, just above where the splintmail ended and the bare neck with its pulsing vein began. _Foolish of the brat to leave kill spots so open. A metal collar would do him the world of good. _

"Hey! Don't shoot!" Alistair held up his hands and stumbled backwards, one foot landing dangerously close to a steely gleam in the mud. "Look," he waved one enthusiastic arm at the scarecrow, "I told you, I've found your maps!"

He was lucky Loghain wasn't aiming for his neck, no matter how tempting a target it made. "I said keep STILL!" Loghain held his breath, and then released the arrow and sent it flying into the trigger of a large grease trap right in front of Alistair.

The pig's bladder exploded, drenching the area far and wide with thick, clinging grease. The brief, intense oilstorm set off a chain reaction of metallic clangs, as the impact of the heavy splatters disabled far more dangerous traps all around. As an added benefit, the slippery blast flung the whelp on his arse right in the middle of the greasy, muddy mess.

"'Who'd put traps in the middle of a field?'" Loghain quoted sarcastically. "You're just lucky you didn't set off any of those poisoned ones!"

"Well that was a bit excessive, don't you think?" Alistair grumbled as he sat up and swiped the worst of the slick off his face. "You could've just pointed them out. I'd've snuck past them. Gracefully."

"Gracefully, hmm?" Loghain rolled his eyes. "I suppose next you'll tell me it wasn't you who fell flat on your arse in the middle of the Lothering chantry's rosebushes? You were even less 'graceful' than the dog."

From the direction of the road, came the distant, aggravatingly-happy bark of one unrepentant mabari.

"Hmph. Wasn't trying to be graceful then," Alistair protested, staggering to his feet. "No we weren't, boy, were we?" he called out, and was answered by another cheery bark. Alistair grinned at the dog's reply.

"If you could possibly move your arse _sometime _before the next Age begins," Loghain grumbled. "It's not as though I haven't already disabled the traps for you."

Alistair turned away from the road, and the dog, and glared at Loghain once more. "You know what your problem is?" he cried, fists propped on hips.

"You!" Loghain fired back, arrow-swift, arrow-pointed.

"HA! You should be so lucky! No, _your _problem is, you never relax. Not ever. ...You know, sometimes," Alistair turned and closed the distance to the scarecrow in a deliberately lazy stroll, reaching ever so casually for the map case, "you really should just take the time to stop and smell the roses. Didn't anyone ever tell you that?"

_Maric did._

"No." Loghain said flatly, trying to crush down the memory of his laughing friend - _oh, Maric_ - holding out a wild rose, very much like the roses from the garden where Loghain had found Alistair. "What's the point?" Loghain added, as gruff as his farmer father whenever he'd talked about frivolities like flowers, "Roses aren't a crop."

Alistair wrinkled his nose comically as he clambered back over the fence, with much slipping and sliding. "Sorry, but 'stop and smell the onions' just doesn't have quite the same ring to it."

"Spoken like someone who's never gone hungry."_ Not too late to fix that. _Loghain was certainly starting to reconsider his plans to share his dinner. He sniffed as Alistair joined him back at the roadside. "Speaking of food, you smell like bacon." He gave a sudden, wolfish grin. "You'll be lucky if the dog doesn't eat you. Or at least lick you all the way out of your skin."

Alistair took a sniff of his own forearm and winced. "Ugh," he groused without much heat. "This is all your fault, you know. First you threaten to shoot me in a place you really shouldn't shoot me if you want me to hold up my end of any marital bargain, _then _you decide on a bit of target practice while I'm in that field. I can see a pattern emerging, and it's making it less and less likely I'll do any more fetching for you."

"Oh, just give it to me, you'll get grease everywhere!" Loghain tugged his long leather cylinder out of Alistair's hand and carefully rolled off any excess oil onto his own armored thighs - a bit of leather dressing never hurt - before he palmed the cap, and with a bone deep sigh of relief he ogled the smooth, creamy skin of his treasured possession. He'd been inseparable from it throughout his travels; in fact he'd worked diligently for years to increase its size. The work had paid dividends; he'd blissfully whiled away countless solitary nights in his tent, lost in an up close and personal communion with it, and whenever he'd taken it out and shown it to someone else, every lucky viewer had wholeheartedly agreed that his was one of the largest and most magnificent in all of Thedas.

Oh yes, not many men, or kings, could boast a private collection of rare maps anywhere near as extensive as Loghain's.

But all the implications of that seemed to be completely lost on Maric's bastard.

* * *

They camped far from Lothering and the Imperial Highway in a quiet, grassy area near the river. Loghain made it a point to select the campsite, tend to the horse and then the hound, and finally set camp, all by himself.

"Um, do you need a hand... or anything?"

Loghain blinked, looking up from his meticulous arrangement of wood and kindling into a compact, smokeless campfire.

The brat stood there, scratching the tip of his nose and _still _glistening like a well-greased pan. The hound's muzzle kept making its way under the hem of his splintmail. Once in a while Alistair tried to shoo the dog away, but it never worked for more than a minute or two, so he'd resorted to an awkward shuffling every time the dog made an overly enthusiastic attempt to lick his splintmail clean starting from the row of bottom splints.

Loghain bit the inside of his cheek to prevent a smile, but amusement tinged his voice all the same, as he grumbled "Oh, bugger off and bathe for Maker's sake, before you spontaneously combust from all that grease."

He glanced at the mabari, thinking of Adalla's fondness for swimming with him. "You too," he said, scratching the dog's ear. "Tongue baths are for cats. You should know that by now."

Alistair's eyebrow lifted in surprise and he looked at the hound then at Loghain, and drew his breath to say something. But Loghain met that stare with his own, and nodded toward the river.

Alistair shrugged, gave a quick, resigned grin, and strode off toward the water, the dog trotting happily after him.

* * *

A short while later, Loghain had one of his maps unfurled to its full size in his lap. He was studying the network of roads, ink branching as intricately as blue veins on the pale buff parchment. The sound of nearby splashing came to his ears, accompanied by barking and laughter. Apparently Alistair and the dog were determined to change the entire course of the Drakon River. Soon afterwards, the pair of them capered back to camp, semi-scrubbed and dripping wet, and all that rampaging and roughhousing made even Loghain look up from his treasured private project: the map he'd drawn himself, of Borders Yet To Be. "Settle down," he groused, as he rolled up his map and slid it back in the case, well out of the way of flying water droplets from a pair of brainless mutts.

The mabari huffed and looked a bit hangdog at the order, but Alistair patted the hound's wet head. The dog flopped over onto his back and hopefully presented his belly for a rub. "Don't you listen to the nasty man," Alistair crooned, bending over the happy hound. "You're my good dog. Who's my boy? Yes, you are!"

"_Your_ dog?" Loghain inquired acidly.

"'Course!" Alistair confirmed, looking up from scratching the belly of one wiggling wet dog. "Who else's?"

"What makes you think _you _own him?"

"Well, I'm a Warden, and Solona was a Warden, so now I have to take care of what she took care of when she was alive. So he's mine now," Alistair explained cheerfully. "Yes boy! Yes, you do need someone to look after you, don't you?"

The dog barked, rolling to his feet and bouncing about like an overgrown puppy.

Loghain, by contrast, was utterly unimpressed. "By that 'logic'," he parried, unruffled, "_I _will have to 'take care of' _you _as well as the dog. And you're not nearly as well trained yet." He gave a brief, piercing whistle, and the hound ran over at once and plopped down to sit by his side, still panting a doggy grin. Loghain let one hand rest on the dog's head, fingers scratching the furry ears in a gesture both affectionate and possessive.

Alistair pouted from the hound to Loghain, looking like an abandoned puppy himself. Then he scowled, unslung an armful of wet splintmail and stomped over to the fire, muttering under his breath all the while. "Yeahright...What's _he _know about taking care of anyone? Bugger all, that's what."

Loghain, who'd raised a Queen (and had at least some hand in raising a King), didn't deign to reply, but he did allow himself a triumphant smirk as he eyed the boy... no. Loghain had to be honest with himself, there was nothing boyish about the body before him, now that only the wet knee-length leather trousers clinging to his skin preserved any templar illusion of modesty. _Not _that Loghain was ogling, staring or even watching. Not at all. There was nothing captivating about the warm glow of firelight on the sleek curves of muscle, the taut planes of arms and chest toned by sword and shield training. Loghain's attention was simply an observant General's appreciation for a finely honed weapon, a perfectly developed specimen of a soldier.

So Loghain _didn't _watch Alistair as he set his splintmail by the fire, propping it up on two crossed sticks so that the leather under the metal splints could dry. Although, for the second time in an hour, Loghain had to bite his cheek to stop a smile as Alistair poked his armor's codpiece, clearly wanting to make sure its protectiveness hadn't been compromised by the oil. Loghain was gratified to see that his exhibition of close-range marksmanship had made such an impression.

As Alistair bent toward him, Loghain noticed two amulets hanging around Alistair's neck like a single pendulum: one of them old, cracked silver, the other dull iron. Loghain peered at them as they dangled and swung, until he made out their designs in the firelight: both were engraved with Andraste's flame. This time, when Alistair raised his head and caught him looking, Loghain didn't look away. "You're still oily," Loghain grumbled by way of excuse, not that it was particularly true anymore. "Stay away from the campfire, you'll go up like a beacon."

"Not Ishal's beacon," Alistair sniped, "at least according to _some_!"

"Wellll," Loghain paused judiciously before delivering his verdict, "You _were_ late lighting it."

"We've been over this!" Alistair huffed, "There was an ogre in the way!"

"Only _one_ ogre?" Loghain reached out to turn dinner - a plump goose - on its makeshift spit over the fire. "To listen to Cailan talk, Wardens ate ogres for breakfast."

As if drawn by the mention of eating, the dog sat up, drooling and licking his chops at the savoury scent of roasting goose.

"Speaking of which, I could eat an ogre right now..." Alistair hinted, eyeing the goose and looking ready to do some drooling and chop-licking of his own.

Loghain lifted the spit off the flames, wrenched the wings and neck from the bird and threw them to the dog, who snapped them out of midair and gulped them down as quickly as if he hadn't had the head, feet and innards already. Then Loghain set the spitted bird right back on the branching sticks that propped the spit over the fire.

Alistair crouched by the flames, propped his chin on his fists, stared at the roasting, sizzling, delicious-smelling goose, and sighed. His stomach growled every bit as loudly as the dog could ever manage.

Loghain held out against the puppy dog eyes and the ridiculous pout and the grumbling belly and the increasingly tragic sighs for another five minutes. Then with a growled, "Anyone'd think you were starving," he pulled the bird off the spit and used his dagger to split the carcass down the middle. Alistair had rounded the fire to grab his half before Loghain had finished the quick work.

Silence fell as they made the most of the hot meat. The quiet was broken only by appreciative barks and crunches as one or the other threw bones to the dog.

"By the way," Alistair didn't resume speaking until he'd sucked the last chunk of meat off the bone and licked luscious juices off his fingers, "How kind of you to wait to accuse us of treason until _after _we recovered from the beacon lighting."

"Hmph." _I don't know why he's so worried about not understanding the nobles, he could give them a run for their money with _that_ display of gratitude for the meal. _"I was just calling it as I saw it at the time. You _were_ giving Qunari and Orlesian spies a guided tour of Ferelden," Loghain added haughtily, "or had you forgotten?"

"Leliana's not an Orlesian _spy_," Alistair protested. "She just grew up there!"

"Ah, so that would only make her loyalties and upbringing Orlesian." Loghain rolled his eyes. "What a difference _that _makes."

"She likes Ferelden, she wouldn't betray it!"

"Really? From my observations, she thought Ferelden was an uncivilised backwater, not worthy of loyalty." A sneer and a pat of the map case to ensure it was safe and sound, showed what Loghain thought of such opinions.

"You're wrong! She was loyal to Lothering's Chantry... er, until, you know," Alistair sighed, waving toward the ruins left far behind them. "Well, you saw for yourself what happened to Lothering. But the point is, she really isn't a spy. She's too nice and sweet, and yes, she might be a bit touched in the head, what with the whole visions and signs thing, but... No." Alistair shook his head. "No way. Now Sten I can see: so big, so quiet, and so... _creepy_. Yeah, I can definitely see why you thought he was a spy. But that was still no reason to suspect the rest of us!"

"Oh, because _you _would never surrender vital information."

"Right!" Alistair cried. "I don't go around surrendering anything vital."

Loghain eyerolled. The boy gossiped like a chambermaid, if the previous deluge of information about Leliana and Sten was anything to go by.

"I especially don't surrender vital parts of my anatomy," Alistair grumbled, "Which, I'll have you know, is not a good way to convince me to take detours at all."

"Oh, stop whinging," Loghain drawled, but it lacked real annoyance. "In case you haven't noticed, your tackle's safe with me. Since you don't seem to have worked it out for yourself, I may as well come right out and tell you that _I_ need you, not only alive but _undamaged_, to marry Anora." He tilted his head and gave Alistair a sly smirk. "Mind you, I've noticed something else. _Your _only real chance of succeeding in this idiot plan of yours to walk away from the crown, is if I'm _dead_. And yet," he spread his hands and widened the smirk to a flat-out grin, "even though you'd freed yourself, even though I was asleep and you had the perfect chance to kill me and ensure your escape, I still woke up this morning conspicuously _not _dead, not even mildly maimed. Not even tied up. Not _even _disarmed."

"Well," Alistair lowered his head, frowning, his expression either mulish or embarrassed; it was hard to tell for sure, with the firelight's shifting shadows. "The way I see it, Ferelden needs as many not-dead and not-maimed Grey Wardens as possible, to clean up after the Blight. And Ferelden's only got you and me."

Loghain arched an eyebrow; the smirk stayed firmly in place. "Oh? Only 'you and me'? Don't tell me you've finally come around to a sensible view of Orlesians?"

"I, uh, wait, I didn't mean it like that!" Alistair swallowed. "Not that I'm not sensible, I can be very sensible, just so you know..."

Loghain cut in, "All I want to know for now is, can I get some undisturbed sleep tonight? And wake up in the morning? Alive, whole, and in your _inestimable _company?"

"Course!" Alistair frowned, "I gave you my word, didn't I?"

"Then in that case, do you want first watch, or will I take it?"

"You can have first watch. I mean, I won't sleep for long anyway. The... well, I suppose you know about the dreams by now."

"Oh, yes," Loghain replied quietly; it was his turn to bow his head. "At least they're not as bad now as they were when the Archdemon was still alive."

"Duncan told me those who join during the Blight have it worse. Solona seemed to. Sometimes the dreams fade... or you learn to block them out. Some people block them right away, others never can."

Loghain nodded. "Just the same as the nightmares I had before I Joined."

"Oh," Alistair said. "I never had those before my Joining. Appetite, yes, I had that before, every so often. But nightmares - not that I remember." He shrugged. "Must've slept right through 'em if I did."

Nevertheless, if Alistair were having nightmares, he wasn't sleeping through them that night, judging by all the tossing and turning that Loghain saw as he patrolled the camp's perimeter. He passed the time by gazing out across the wilderness, silver under the moon, and by listening to the noises of the river, the breeze and the night creatures, training his ears to pick up any change in the routine sounds.

Some uneventful hours later, he crouched a few feet away from the solitary bedroll by the fire, the lower tip of his bow digging into the soil as he stared down at the bundled-up body. Alistair was certainly not asleep. He was quite possibly watching Loghain back. Loghain saw the whites of his eyes glistening, lit by the dim embers of the fire.

At last Loghain, irate at the whole point of his scheduled watch being rendered moot before his eyes, growled, "Should I tie you to a tree again?"

"Wha?" Alistair rolled over onto his back and peered blearily up at him. "Why? I said I won't run."

"It seemed to... invigorate you, even better than a good night's sleep."

"'Course it did," Alistair pouted. "Being tied up does that. Invigorated me right out of my bonds and away from you!"

"And that was the _only _reason." With a cynical smirk Loghain recalled definite signs of an 'invigorated' state on Alistair's face - not to mention his body - any time he'd been restrained, magically or physically.

"Huh? Of course it was, why wouldn't it be?"

"Oh, I'm sure even you will eventually come across the answer, if you think long and hard enough."

"Stop teasing me, old man." Alistair scowled.

Loghain snorted. For a son of Maric, the boy clearly didn't know the meaning of teasing. So Loghain ignored Alistair, continuing as if he hadn't spoken. "If I _were _to restrain you again," he said slowly and pensively, as if thinking aloud, "since the hound destroyed my rope at your urging, I've got nothing else left to tie you up, but the spare string for my bow. It's silk. Spidersilk. Have you ever handled spidersilk?"

"Ohh nooo, not the spiiidersilk," Alistair drawled, eyerolling and giving a mockingly false shiver. "Scary stuff, that. Too scary for _me _to touch."

"Really? Well you must've seen it before." _I don't see why he is playing so oblivious. It doesn't take an employee of the Pearl to notice that he gets off on being restrained, the little deviant. _Loghain grinned sharply. _Even if he were the 'chantry boy' he was pretending to be before, he still couldn't be this deep in denial. _Loghain ran his hands slowly and caressingly over the taut curve of the strung longbow as he continued, "I've dealt with spidersilk enough to know that it may look sleek, and silvery, and deceptively thin, but it's still strong enough to hold a grown man."

Alistair swallowed. "Ha, now I know you're lying!"

"I assure you, I'm not. Haven't you ever fought giant spiders? Think of the cocoons those monsters spin around their prey. They hang even armored men in midair indefinitely, with only a thin length of that silk. I won't need much, either, unlike the spiders... a loop around your wrists, another around your ankles... Oh, and a word to the wise," he drawled, low and smoky, "the thread's so fine, it can cut like a blade if you struggle... so," he concluded in a sinister rumble, "it's certainly not a toy."

"Guh..." Alistair gaped up at him, his eyes wide and glazed. Even in the reddish glow of the dying fire, it was clear that his blood was burning in his face. He swallowed convulsively and choked out, "I mean, 'huh', what are you on about?"

_With that blush, how can he expect me to believe he doesn't know what I'm talking about? _Loghain rose to his feet. "Just proving a point," he murmured, his expression neutral.

"What point?" Alistair cried. "There was no point to this at all!"

"No point? Really?" Loghain huffed and allowed himself just one pointed glance down. Not that he was seeking out any particular... points. It wasn't his fault that some points were quite ...outstanding.

"Argh! Sod off!" With an abrupt rustle of woollen blankets, Alistair threw himself onto his side in the bedroll, curling up with his back to Loghain. He flung his arm around the snoring hound who'd been content serving as his pillow all along.

"Ohh no you don't," Loghain nudged him in the small of the back with a toe, "It's your watch."

Alistair snarled incoherently, threw off the blanket and lurched to his feet. They traded bleary-eyed scowls in the moonlight, before Loghain turned away and set out his bedroll.

_Call _me_ a despot, will he?_ Loghain thought later, replaying their conversation in his mind as he lay by the fire and luxuriated in the warm blankets, as well as in the triumph he didn't quite let onto his face. _That'll show him. _

_Hopefully Anora will take him in hand. _Somehow, that idea didn't seem quite as welcome as before, but Loghain reassured himself. _She's up to it. She managed Cailan, she can manage him._

_Maker knows, someone needs to. I don't think I've ever met anyone who needs proper discipline more desperately than him. That was his father's problem too, and his brother's. I tried my best to instill a sense of discipline and duty in the pair of them, but they could always play the King card when they tired of doing the duties of a monarch._ The irony of that thought was so old, so familiar it had lost most of its sting. It certainly didn't stop him from answering the call of the Fade.

* * *

"_What_ are you doing?" Loghain cried out the next morning, jolted from his sleep for the second time in as many days: this time by the sight of Alistair starting to pull maps out of his case.

"Look, I just need some parchment. It's not like we've got plates."

Realization dawned. Loghain gaped up at Alistair. "You left my map of Denerim as a _placemat?_" He couldn't even help the undignified yelp of outrage in his voice. "What sort of fucking savage are you?"

"You're the savage! You don't have any plates or clean cloths. Or bits of parchment that aren't maps. I couldn't just leave the food on the ground! You can get sick if you eat things that are covered in dirt!"

"I survived drinking darkspawn blood, Archdemon blood, and Lyrium!" Loghain cried. "A bit of dirt won't kill me! But if you get any dirt on my maps, I will kill _you!_"

Alistair's eyes narrowed. "You've certainly got a _thing _for those maps, don't you." It wasn't a question.

Loghain bridled. _That's rich, coming from a kinky bastard like you!_ "I suppose you don't think it's important to know where you're going? Why am I not surprised? It's a wonder you managed to stay even vaguely in the right direction to Ostagar."

"Oh, come on! I bet you don't even _need _those things to know where you're going."

"It doesn't matter. Maps are _important_. They're a distillation of what we know about the land of our birth."

"Land of our birth, huh?" Alistair abruptly pulled the outermost map off the roll: it was the one Loghain had been looking at just last night. Alistair peered at it. "I don't think _this _map will tell anyone where to go. It's got Ferelden swelled up to twice the size of Orlais. Hmm, 'Borders Yet To Be', huh? Oooh!" Alistair's eyes widened as he continued in a sing-song voice, "Loooks like _some_body's got Plans!"

Loghain felt his face growing hot. He scrambled out of the bedroll, and only the precious parchment in the annoying bastard's hand stopped Loghain from tackling him to the ground and punching some sense into him. Instead he thrust out one hand and growled, "_Give_ me that!"

"Juuust a moment," Alistair turned, pushing a sharp elbow out. "What've we got here... I don't remember these... Maric's Peninsula... Hills of Rowan..." he peered closer. "Right next to Mount Loghain. Reeeally?" The bastard was grinning all over his bratty face. It was a highly attractive grin: it was highly likely to attract Loghain's fists.

"Give it here!" Loghain snarled, "Now!"

"All right, all right." Alistair was still beaming as he offered the map to Loghain. "Hills of Rowan..." he continued gloating as Loghain stowed the map and resealed the case with obsessive care. "Now that's what I call _top_ography. No wonder you keep fondling -"

He didn't finish the sentence.

Loghain was never gladder that his map case was made of such hard leather. He never even dented it when he thwapped the brat over that rock-hard head of his.

"Ow!"

"Let that be a lesson to you," Loghain snapped as Alistair pouted and rubbed his head, "If I want your grubby paws on any of my personal possessions, I'll ask for them. But don't hold your breath." He glared at Alistair as he secured the map case in a saddlebag, "On second thoughts, _do _hold your breath. It'd save Ferelden a great deal of trouble."

The impudent sod was careful to circle round so that the mabari _and_ the horse were between him and Loghain, before he asked, "So, are we taking another detour to these newfound hills now, or are you saving the breast for last?"

* * *

**Footnotes**

The Dragon Age: Origins quest called _A Poisonous Proposition_ answers Alistair's question of who would put traps in the middle of a field.


	5. Of Cheese and Chasind

**CHAPTER 5: Of Cheese and Chasind**

Maric's son had obviously inherited all of his father's ability to drive Loghain clean out of his wits. Loghain lunged over the horse's saddle, making a sudden grab for the mouthy sod. But the brat dodged away, chuckling breathlessly, just like he'd laughed yesterday, when he'd been playing in the river with the hound. Obviously attracted to the sound, the dog decided to join in, bounding in between them with puppyish enthusiasm, barking and leaping at Loghain, knocking him backward off his feet.

"Fine," Loghain growled at Alistair, sitting up and pushing the dog away before his face was entirely covered in slobbery licks. "See if I share my kill tonight."

"In that case, I'd better eat up now," Alistair said cheerfully, grabbing the bag of dried fruit and tossing a handful into his mouth.

"Go gnaw on someone who needs it," Loghain told the hound, shooing him toward Alistair. Loghain stood and grabbed the largest saddlebag from the pile of their gear, before stalking toward the campfire, tugging one-handed at the fastenings of his leather armor.

"Good! _High _time you bathed!" Alistair called out after him.

Loghain scowled. He _had _been planning on a bath, but damned if he was going to do it now! Now it'd look as though he was giving in to the brat's nagging. It could wait 'til tonight. He peeled the leathers down his torso and off, his movements brisk and practiced. "I'm not bathing," he grumbled over his shoulder, in 'so there' tones. Instead, he opened the saddlebag and pulled out a breastplate. It certainly wasn't the silverite of his Chevalier plate: the smooth, plain surface was a purple so dark it was practically black, and instead of the ring of metal, the plates struck against each other with a much quieter click, like horn. "Give me a hand here," he snapped, irritated at having to ask the annoying sod for assistance.

"As long as you only need one hand; I'd have to use the other to cover my nose," the brat teased as he walked closer. "Ooh." He stopped nearby, ogling the plate in Loghain's arms. "Is that what I think it is?"

Loghain smirked. "If you were thinking Archdemon-scale instead of Chevalier-shell, you'd be right." He shoved the breastplate into Alistair's hands, then pulled a gambeson out of the bag and shrugged into it. Alistair hefted the plate, eyebrows lifting in surprise at how light it felt.

"Now get busy," Loghain took the breastplate back off Alistair and started to fit it to his chest. "Those buckles in back won't fasten themselves."

"Who knew the Archdemon could come in this handy! I'm glad I didn't drop this out in the fields with your maps." Alistair added, "Hey, why couldn't you just wear this all along and leave me a bit more room in your saddlebags?"

"Oh, of course, I'm doing this just to inconvenience you," Loghain parried. "The fact that we're heading straight toward the site of one of the largest darkspawn battles in history doesn't have a thing to do with it."

"Hmph. You really, really don't ever relax."

"Do you see any roses to smell around here?" Loghain drew breath for another comment, but then there was a hand on the bare skin of his nape, warm and unexpected as it kneaded the muscle. Oddly, the sensation was ...not entirely unpleasant.

"I mean it. Relax! At least a bit. You're as stiff as a pikestaff." Alistair's hand left his nape and joined the other on the buckle at Loghain's shoulder as he adjusted the strap. "Or I won't be able to get the plates to sit right, and they'll chafe."

It was annoyingly good advice. Loghain drew a deep breath and let it out in a long, slow sigh, trying to will his body to relax. He tilted his head slowly to and fro, working the muscles in his neck; they loosened bit by bit, with the occasional muffled crunch from his joints. Alistair nodded approvingly. "Duncan had the same problem right after he had the straps on his plate replaced. The leather was new and hard, not broken in yet," there was pressure of the strap against Loghain's sides, then it eased, "like yours."

"Now I see why Duncan conscripted you. He needed a good squire."

Alistair shrugged, smiling reminiscently as practiced hands continued to work the buckles. "Among other things. I polished his plate too, and sharpened his blades."

That smile made Loghain quite sure just which blade of Duncan's Alistair had sharpened. "No doubt he made full use of your hidden talents," Loghain drawled.

"Yeah, he was the first one who ever did." Alistair's smile widened, but the reminiscent fondness was still there. "It felt so good to really be appreciated for once."

Loghain cleared his throat. "No doubt," he husked. He pictured that conniving bastard Duncan on the receiving end of those smitten smiles, not to mention all the rest of Alistair's no-doubt delightful attentions, and felt his neck muscles locking tight again. He turned away before Alistair could spot it and call him on it. "That'll do," he muttered, "I can reach all the other straps."

It didn't take him long to finish armoring himself, even without Alistair's able assistance.

Then he stowed his leathers, quiver and bow, and from another saddlebag he took the Archdemon-fang sword. Thus armed, he drew out the last thing: a spare blanket tied up to form a protective bundle. Loghain unwrapped the bundle with care, revealing a shield. To the casual eye it might not have seemed like anything terribly extraordinary. Not until Loghain slung it on his back, revealing the blazon. It wasn't a complex design - just a pair of red mabari rampant on a quartering of gold and silver - but it was famous throughout Ferelden. _Maric's._

Alistair stared at the blazon.

_Just like a bull would stare at a red rag._ "What?" Loghain snapped. "_Yes_ it's Maric's, _no _it's not an attempt to step into his shoes and take over his crown. This shield was a _gift_."

"I didn't say any of that!"

"You were thinking it," Loghain growled.

"No I wasn't!" Alistair cried. "You want to _know _what I was thinking, instead of making things up?"

Loghain nodded, once. His mouth was pressed into a tight line, but his throat was tighter.

"I was thinking about _this_." Alistair grabbed his own shield, holding it up and turning it so that the grey griffin blazon faced Loghain. But it wasn't the blazon that caught Loghain's eye, it was Alistair's uncharacteristically calm expression as he met Loghain's gaze. "I was thinking that I know exactly how it feels, to have a shield you don't want to break in battle," he murmured softly. "Mine used to be Duncan's."

_Duncan again._ Loghain's jaw clenched. As if invoking that name had any chance of improving Loghain's mood.

* * *

As the Imperial Highway led them deeper and deeper into the Blighted lands, wherever they looked the signs of decay and destruction grew stronger, as inevitably as the morning light. This far south, the Wilds were always dangerous. The Blight had only intensified the peril.

Wary of pockets of darkspawn lingering in the swamps, Loghain wore his sword ready to hand. Part of his attention ranged far and wide, watching and listening for the faintest signs in the wilderness all around them. The other part was turned inward, monitoring the beat of his own tainted blood, waiting for the burning signal that darkspawn were close.

_It's only a matter of time._

But despite his sense of foreboding, for the time being at least, all was quiet. That afternoon, Loghain led them off the road, and into a small patch of trees that looked sparse enough not to be an ambush zone. He tethered the horse, before asking Alistair to help him look for elfroot. When he'd continued speaking, Alistair cut him off.

"Yeah, yeah, pale, shrub like, heart shaped leaves. I know it."

"Good." Loghain was relieved he didn't have to waste time on description. "I need it to restock our poultices and injury kits. We should have as many of both as we can carry. Maker knows, you'll probably use them all." He measured Alistair with his stare and scowled. '_If_ you remember not to stop chanting around any maleficarum, otherwise you won't even survive long enough to need patching up!"

"Well aren't _you _just a ray of sunshine?"

"Aw, you noticed," Loghain gave Alistair a sharp edged smirk. "That's what everyone keeps calling me," he parried, unruffled.

Alistair snorted, straightening up with a freshly pulled specimen of elfroot in one hand. "How's this then, Sunshine?" he beamed.

Loghain nodded grudging approval of his choice of plant. Aloud, he only grumbled, "That's Warden Commander Sunshine to you."

"Hey!" Alistair cried, "Who died and made you Warden C-" he gulped and swallowed back the rest of that word.

"Actually," Loghain replied very quietly, not mentioning the two names which were no doubt on Alistair's mind, "I appointed myself. Seeing as how I was the _only _Grey Warden left in all of Ferelden," he added pointedly, "it seemed the only sensible thing to do."

"Fair enough, I suppose," Alistair said, much quieter than his initial outburst. "Dunno if the Wardens at Weisshaupt will see it that way..."

"Well since nobody in Ferelden has heard a fart from those fuckers since the Blight started," Loghain snapped, "you'll excuse me if I don't sit on my arse waiting for them to start giving a shit about this country!"

Alistair sighed, biting his lip. "Well, if they do start giving a - well, caring - and if you're serious about being a Commander, you can tell them I'm not going to stand in your way."

Loghain stared at him. "And here I thought you'd duel me for it," he said in tones soft with surprise.

"Me?" Alistair yelped, "Duel you to be a Commander? Oh, no no no. Duel you to see justice done, maybe. But to lead? No! Bad things happen when I lead! We get lost, people die, and the next thing you know I'm stranded somewhere without any pants. … Hey, I'm _serious!_"

Despite Alistair's cry, Loghain couldn't help his splutter of amusement at the thought of Alistair stranded without pants, his bollocks swinging in the breeze. "That sounds like an interesting story..." Alistair's face had gone a startling shade of red, so Loghain relented, out of a desire to get more elfroot gathered rather than any sense of mercy, "... but perhaps it's a story for another time."

"Ha! You're not getting anything out of me, old man."

_Now _that _sounds like a challenge!_ Loghain smiled inwardly. _Chatty sods like him usually find their tongues further loosened by booze._ He thought about the large flask of overproof spirits he'd packed: he'd intended it to clean wounds, or to dull their pain. But if they got out of Ostagar in one piece, he could always put it to more interesting use.

* * *

"C'mon, fetch me an elfroot, boy. Yeah, go on. Good boy! Dig! Yes, like that. Hey, no, not the stick. It's not play time..." Alistair sighed. "Oh, all right, I'll throw it. But just this once."

"Will you stop teaching my mabari bad habits?" Loghain snapped.

"_Your_ mabari?" Alistair's eyes narrowed. "Since when is he yours?" The question was suspiciously similar to one Loghain had asked him just yesterday.

"Since I took over his care."

"Hmph. Have you even had a mabari before?"

"As it happens I have. But what's important isn't me, it's what he needs. Mabari have served Ferelden for centuries, so it's only proper that I gave this mabari a purpose in life, stability and discipline, in return."

"Discipline _and_ purpose?" Alistair grumbled, "Yeah, right. 'Lick my boots', huh?"

"No, actually, I enlisted his aid in tracking you."

"So I'm his new purpose?" Alistair grinned.

"Of course," Loghain sighed. "Everything's about you."

"Why else are you both out here in the middle of nowhere, if not for me?"

"Careful," Loghain drawled, "If you carry on like that, your head will swell so much it'll blot out the sun."

"And we can't have that, can we?" Alistair pressed his fist to his heart and bowed in a formal military salute, "Warden Commander Sunshine."

Loghain gave him a Look. Then he whistled the dog to heel and stomped off to check for elfroot in another part of the thicket. Just before he disappeared among the trees, he called over his shoulder, "And stop picking stinging nettle! Maker's breath, boy, we need poultices, not nettle soup! If you don't believe me, take off your gauntlets."

Alistair caught up with him later, scratching a fresh rash on his hand and carrying a armful of the proper sort of plants. He shouldered his backpack petulantly - his belongings had been banished from the saddlebags to make room for things like Loghain's map case, and leathers, and bow - and grumbled something under his breath.

"What was that?"

"I said, this splintmail is missing one thing. Pockets."

"Oh yes, pockets the size of saddlebags, what a wonderful idea! What could possibly go wrong?"

"Absolutely nothing, only stray travellers mistaking me for a pack mule as they pass by. A-ha!" Alistair beamed as he spotted another elfroot, bending to wrap his fingers around the prickly stem and yank the tenacious plant out of the muddy soil. "Hey, do you know why they call it elfroot?"

Loghain grunted.

Apparently Alistair took it as grunt of encouragement. "It's got nothing to do with elves. They call it elfroot because..." he paused for effect.

"...It's good f'r yer 'elf," Loghain eyerolled and finished the sentence for him before Alistair could get a word out.

Alistair stared. Blinked. "Oh," he said, for lack of other things to say, since Loghain had just taken the words right out of his mouth.

Loghain's hand closed around an elfroot sprout as he grumbled, "Yes, Solona told me that joke the first time she gathered fresh poultice ingredients with me."

"She did? Hmph." Alistair pouted at the news, absently scratching the back of his hand, where the nettle sting was still visible.

"Rub an elfroot leaf on it," Loghain told Alistair curtly.

Alistair's eyebrows shot up, but he shrugged and did as Loghain said. His speculative expression cleared into a smile and he nodded thanks. "All right, then," he picked up where he'd left off, "Have you heard this one? A human, an elf and a qunari walk into a bar... and a dwarf," he snorted, "a dwarf -"

"- walks under it." their words echoed each other. Loghain let out a pained sigh. "Do try to come up with something original, instead of stealing your lines from a drunken berserker."

Alistair frowned, no doubt because his former comrades-in-arms had dared to joke in Loghain's presence, instead of waving pitchforks and torches and setting up a sacrificial fire. But then he grumbled, "Fine. How about a story?"

"It can't be any worse than your earlier efforts," Loghain said dryly.

"Would a simple 'yes' kill you? Talk about a tough audience," Alistair groused, before taking a deep breath and heaving a gusty sigh, as if physically blowing away his irritation. When he resumed speaking, his tone was a bit lighter, so presumably it had some effect. "So, one day, this Chantry sister and a templar were having a game of darts. The templar took a mighty throw, but his dart missed the board completely. He shook his fist and cried 'Shit, I missed!' ..."

Alistair looked at Loghain, daring him to cut in, but Loghain shrugged and kept silent.

When next Alistair spoke, it was in a squeaky, quavery voice that was a passable parody of an old woman's tones, "'You watch your language, young man!'..." His voice returned to normal as he continued, "...warned the good sister, but on the templar's next throw, his dart bounced off the board, and again he said 'Shit, I missed.'"

Logain huffed his amusement. Judging by his voice, Alistair had cast Oghren as the templar.

"'I won't play if you keep swearing,' the sister warned him," Alistair continued his one-man show switching from the sister's squeaky voice to templar's booming one. "'All right, all right, I'll do better,' the templar promised. And so they continued. But on the next throw..." Alistair paused and grinned, "Yeah, you guessed it. 'Shit, I missed.'"

_If he doesn't make it as King, _Loghain thought, _he'll always be able to earn a crust as court jester._

"The sister was spitting bile by then. 'The Maker _will_ smite you if you keep swearing like that, you mark my words!'" Alistair screeched, before switching back to his own voice. "Well, that didn't improve the templar's aim any, not to mention his temper. 'Shit, I missed!' he cried, 'And that time it was all your fault!'"

By that time, Loghain had given up on trying to hide his grin. He just nodded to Alistair to go on.

"Suddenly..." Alistair beamed, gesturing with his hands so quickly, a chunk of mud flew off the elfroot he was holding in his fist, making the hound duck. "There was a terrible rumble of thunder, and a gigantic bolt of lightning came from a clear blue sky - ZAP! - and struck the sister dead in her tracks. And from the sky came a booming voice..." Alistair straightened up, cleared his throat and posed for emphasis. "'SHIT, I MISSED!'"

Loghain chuckled, he couldn't help it.

Alistair beamed and added, "And then Andraste said," and he put on a squeaky voice again, "'I won't play if you keep swearing!'"

Loghain shook his head, still grinning, "How you survived for years within earshot of a Revered Mother is beyond me."

"Hey, I was on my best behavior."

"I wonder what _that _looks like! Maker knows, I've never seen even good behavior from you."

"I'll have you know, that just like any other obedient templar-in-training," Alistair's expression was a parody of piousness as he raised his eyes to the sky, "I've come to appreciate discipline, thoroughly and fully."

_Shameless sod. _Loghain snorted. Still, the conversational opening Alistair had left was too tempting not to take advantage of. "I suppose that all depends on how you define 'appreciate'," he drawled, "or 'discipline'." _or 'come'_, he didn't quite add. After all, this wasn't Maric, who would have chortled shamelessly at Loghain's joke. No matter how similar their features were, Alistair wasn't a copy of his father: Alistair outdid the sunset with his blushes at even the tamest remarks.

* * *

After separating the elfroot they'd gathered from its roots, Alistair wandered restlessly around the campfire. He picked up the packet of distillation agent, and sniffed the grey powder. "I always wondered, where does this stuff come from? Other than the the back of the vendors' cart, that is. Distillery? It doesn't smell anything like ale."

Loghain looked up from reducing the elfroot to a dull green paste with the pommel of his dagger. "Well, there's this flower. It's called iris, because it comes in many different colours, like eyes. But you don't use the flower in poultices. You use the root, which is called orris. It has to be dried for years, and then they grind it and distil the powder, and you use that distillate to fix the volatile oils from the elfroot, so they'll keep indefinitely, until you use the poultice." Loghain's spate of information eventually ran dry. He stared at Alistair, hoping for some vague spark of understanding.

Alistair stared back, his brown eyes wide and panicked, just like deer sometimes stared at Loghain in that frozen moment before he loosed his arrow. "Er," Alistair replied at last, "you lost me at 'flower'."

Loghain facepalmed. "I _should _have lost you in those bloody rose bushes! Come here and take over. It's high time you learned how to use the _other _end of a weapon for something useful."

"All right." Alistair took Loghain's place by the slightly concave rock he'd been using as a mortar, and peered at the consistency of the green paste in contrast with the still-fresh pile of gathered herbs. "Grab the dagger, reduce the target to goo using the _non_-pointy end for once: I can do that." He took the dagger off Loghain and gripped it firmly. There was a gamely determined look on his face that Loghain told himself he _didn't_ find endearing. Not a bit. "Should I grind it in a circle?" Alistair asked, miming the motion with the weapon in his hand, "or pound it up and down?"

Loghain had to choke back the first dozen responses, ones more suited to an army barracks, like _You'll get more juice with a nice slow grind_ and _Don't tell me you don't know how to pound it good and hard._ Instead, he restricted himself to a slightly strangled but more or less innocuous, "You've watched me long enough. Do what feels right. If you're doing it wrong, I'll let you know."

Alistair nodded and got to work. Loghain had to admit, he brought a lot of youthful enthusiasm to the job.

As a matter of fact, Alistair's enthusiasm was hard to understand: surely this wide-eyed almost-templar wouldn't share Loghain's innuendo-driven amusement at the task. As Loghain thought about that, his amusement faded, replaced by the faintest possible frisson of unease. Now that he had time to think it over, he realised that, despite all the lip, Alistair was surprisingly good at following orders: far better than Loghain would ever have expected from someone who'd first fled the Grey Wardens and then the crown. In fact, mouthiness aside, Alistair was a model soldier. _He even listens to _me_, and he wants me dead, or at least he did. Why would he follow _my _orders? Out of a misplaced sense of discipline? Duty? Masochism? Well, all right, that last one seems like a reasonable motivation, for him. But still..._ _How in the Black City could this have happened?_

_He certainly didn't inherit it from his father. Maric had his own rambunctious sense of humour, but Maric would never have walked away from the throne, no matter how little he was looking forward to it. And now Alistair, for all his earlier hatred for me, is still willing, almost relieved, to let me assume the commander's role. _

_How odd._

_'Bad things happen when I lead!' _

_Is that how he really feels? I think so; he said it with the speed of instinct. But I can't see a strong, able warrior his age coming to such a conclusion on his own. Someone else must've taught him that lesson._

Covertly, Loghain observed Alistair, as he bent over the stone, twisting the hilt of the dagger into the soggy pulp with a juicy squelch. Absentmindedly Alistair scratched his forehead, leaving tracks of green, like kaddis, across his face.

_Who would have wanted Maric's son for their own personal mabari?_

_The templars? He did call himself a templar-in-training just now, but I really don't think he was serious. ...Although, there's nothing like the threat of an angry Maker and a Black City to point out a man's sins and then motivate him to pay for them with obedience... _

_No! I don't believe it. He hates the templars and the Chantry, enough to use politics - a weapon he distrusts - against them. I have to admit, it took balls to force the templars' Knight-Commander to let the mages go free. And Alistair's fondness for smart-arsed remarks wouldn't have done him any favours among those pious bastards. _

Loghain's thoughts were like a labyrinth of unmapped roads: still to be unraveled and traced and named in ink on parchment. He sorted through them as patiently as he hunted down his quarry, whether a meal or a man. _So, if not the Chantry, who else could have turned him away so thoroughly from leadership? Duncan? … No, I don't think he had enough time to cause such an instinctive reaction. A few romps in the bedroll do not a model minion make. _

A frown furrowed Loghain's brow. _I bet it was Eamon, his 'guardian'. Some guardian _he _was, the power hungry, pompous prick! To the Chantry, Alistair was nothing more than another potential templar, to Duncan he was just one more recruit, but Eamon always knew he was Maric's son. I can certainly see Eamon planning for the future: taking special care to raise Alistair so he would grow up looking to others - to Eamon - for guidance. There's not much point in raising a puppet if he ends up thinking for himself._

_And I thought Howe was a snake!_

Alistair's voice broke into Loghain's brooding. "How am I doing?" He was peering uncertainly at the green mush spread over the rock.

Loghain looked. "You're doing fine," he murmured, trying to sound reassuring. _I wonder how much of Eamon's - or others' - lessons can be undone now. What would it take to show the lad that he's more capable of leading than he thinks?_

"Are you sure?" Alistair lifted a goo-covered finger and let it drip down.

"Quite sure," Loghain replied firmly. "You'll be making your own poultices in no time."

"Dunno. It looks nothing like a poultice now. The last time I saw plants that looked like this, they were hay - or what was left of it after it'd been through a horse - and I was mucking out Eamon's stables."

"Eamon," Loghain echoed neutrally as he watched Alistair pulverising another plant. "He had more of a hand in raising you than just keeping you around as a stable boy, didn't he?"

Alistair looked up. Shrugged. "Course," he answered cautiously. "You ought to know he did what he could. Or were royal bastards forgotten about, the second they were out of the King's sight? I never quite got the hang of that part of court etiquette."

Loghain, who'd had as little to do with court etiquette over the years as he could possibly get away with, twisted his lips ruefully._ Best not remind him of my lack of nobility, or he'd only use it as an excuse for why commoners - or those raised as such - shouldn't play nobles. He'd hardly see me as a shining example of success as a Regent._

"No." Loghain shook his head and said quietly, "_**I**_didn't forget." _I was the one to tell Eamon to take you away and raise you as his own - not that the scheming sod ever listened to me - and I would have been the only one with the balls to carry out the unpleasant duty of disposing of you, if you'd challenged Cailan's kingship and plunged Ferelden into civil war._

"I see." Alistair's face was uncharacteristically grim. "Well, I suppose I have to thank you then. For letting Eamon take care of me." He twisted the hilt of the dagger and dug it deep into the green slush. "I could've ended up in a dungeon or worse. And Eamon was good to me," Alistair sounded defensive, as if he was trying to convince himself, "He was. And he didn't have to be. So yeah, thanks for that, I guess."

Loghain narrowed his eyes in a look heavy with unease. Unfocused guilts coiled deep within him, as formless as the Korcari Wilds' fog, and as difficult to dispel._ 'Good to you'... You poor bastard. Literally. I wonder, was anyone else in your life ever good to you, so you'd have a basis for comparison? I doubt it, since you seem to think this tiny act of convenience is proof of a spotless morality._

He didn't ask that question. Not yet. "You're welcome," he murmured instead and began scooping the elfroot pulp into flasks, along with a pinch of dried orris root in each. He corked the flasks and shook them vigorously, combining the ingredients into fresh health poultices. Hopefully they would be enough to get them both through this 'detour' the brat was so insistent on.

* * *

The dog plopped down to sit by the fire, lifted his back paw, and scratched at his ear.

"Fleas?" Loghain grinned at the hound. "Serves you right, you daft dog. That's what you get for letting _him _use you for a pillow." He nodded at Alistair.

The dog's tongue lolled out and he snorted.

"What, you don't believe me? I haven't seen him wash his helmet yet." Loghain smirked, leaned forward and informed the dog, "It's probably ten times worse than his codpiece. You'd best be thankful both of them aren't on a level with your nose."

The dog sneezed and stared at Loghain with one dubious dark eye.

"Are you telling lies about me again?" Alistair yelled from a distance as he finished unsaddling and currycombing the horse for the night. "And by the way, where's my cheese?"

The dog licked his chops and let out a happy bark.

Loghain didn't bother to reply at once, other than smirking at Alistair and nodding toward the dog. "Come on, with that belly on four legs sniffing around the place, do you even have to ask?"

Alistair frowned. "He can't have got to it all by himself, my bag was closed," he protested. His eyes widened and he pointed accusingly at Loghain. "_You_ stole my cheese! And you bribed him to like you. With _my_ cheese! Oh, you so totally did! Don't even deny it!"

Loghain scoffed dismissively. "You should thank me. It was _rotten_, we both did you a favour."

"It was _not_ rotten! It'd just gotten nicely mature! And you stole it!"

"Oh, come on, it was covered in mould!"

"It was blue vein! Savage!"

"_I'm_ the savage? That stuff stank! Almost as bad as your socks!"

The dog whined, with the knowing, solemn tone of someone who'd had his nose in both.

"See?" Loghain said. "He agrees with me!"

"What?" Alistair spluttered. "Why would either of you ever be near my socks? Oh... Ohhh, no! Don't tell me that's why I've been finding new holes in them! You let him have my socks too?"

"Of course not," Loghain - who'd allowed the dog to tear up one of Alistair's socks before he'd even begun to hunt him - lied effortlessly. "Those things would poison the poor hound! What sort of a monster do you take me for?"

Alistair gave him a Look. "Do you want me to answer that question?"

"Hmph. How could you even tell if the dog had chewed them? They're more hole than wool. Your feet probably dissolved them."

"Oh, stop making excuses. You owe me a nice big round of blue vein! And socks!"

"If you're that desperate for socks, you could always mend the old ones. Or comb the dog for hair and knit yourself new ones."

The dog turned his back on the pair of them and started industriously scratching himself for fleas. Apparently some things were more important than bickering humans, or smelly mouldy yummy dog treats, or even the threat of being combed.

* * *

The night was creeping over the Wilds, and the fog spread, slowly but surely, to cover the swampy ground. In it, their small smokeless campfire was almost invisible from five steps away.

Loghain had enlisted Alistair's help to shed his armor. Now, soap and rag in hand, he knelt by the nearest pool, and scooped up the water, careful not to disturb the mud on the bottom of the puddle. An ironic smirk twisted his lips as he wiped the soapy rag over his skin. _Ah, the price of proving a point. The river this morning would've been a much better way to get clean than this catbath._

He set down the rag and unwound the braids at his temples with the deftness of decades of practice, then worked soap through his hair, scratching at the heavy length of mane, working out road dust and scalp oil, then cupping his hands time and again in the pool, lifting the brackish water and dumping it over his head, letting it run down his body, rinsing off the suds, and the worst of the sweat and grime with it.

It was good enough for Loghain. He was no pampered noble, to swoon at the mere thought of doing without the Orlesian luxury of bathwater not only steaming hot but clean enough to drink.

His Ferelden had cold swampwater to offer; so cold swampwater was all right by him.

Loghain scraped his hands over his skin, swiping off the worst of the wet, before grabbing his dagger from where he'd left it by the pool. Kneeling beside the water, he lathered his face and drew the blade over his skin with an audible rasp of stubble.

"HEY!"

Loghain startled, wincing at the sting as the dagger's edge caught his jaw. The only reason his soap didn't disappear forever in murky swampwater was because Loghain caught the rope it was attached to before it had time to sink. "What the _fuck!_" he whirled to glare at Alistair. He must've looked like a Chasind Wilder: wet, mostly naked, hair a sodden black mane, and teeth bared in a snarl ringed by white foam streaked with blood.

Of course no Chasind possessed the luxuries of Ferelden's modern marvels, such as soap on a rope, or smallclothes, for that matter. Still, it was no wonder Alistair blushed like a beetroot and yelped "Nothing! Er. Just. Dog jumped me. Nothing! Um. Sorry! Carry on!"

Loghain gave Alistair a Look that was pointed enough to be an arrow in his very favourite bits, before turning his back and going back to scraping his face.

There was the sound of a throat being cleared behind him, then Alistair muttered "You might as well give up and grow it out. All the most famous Grey Wardens had beards. It's practically a requirement, didn't you know? Vigorous hair growth is probably just another side effect of the taint."

Loghain took a moment to finish scraping the last traces of beard off his throat, before turning to eye Alistair, allowing his dubious stare to linger on the boy's chin, and the peachfuzz that adorned it. He snorted. "So how do you explain _that?_"

"Ah, yes. That." Alistair rubbed his chin glumly. His shoulders sagged in a manner most woebegone, and he gave a deep sigh. "Yeah. 'That' is a much-maligned mystery, I'm afraid. Anyway," he added with a visible effort to be cheerful, "I'm a bit of an exception like that, and you're obviously not. Er. You kind of missed a spot... Right. Here." He tapped the side of his jaw.

Loghain huffed and felt along the same spot on his own jaw. His eyebrows lifted, and he tilted his head in a deliberate nod of thanks, before lifting his chin and drawing the wickedly sharp blade over his jaw and throat in one final steady sweep.

In its own way, shaving was as much of a gesture of trust as sleeping had been; only a slight jog of his elbow would have been enough to open his jugular.

"Out of curiosity," Loghain squinted as he inspected the reflection of his chin in the blade. "How many of these 'famous Grey Wardens with beards' have you actually met?" _It's always the chatty sorts who are easily pumped for incidental information._

"Um, well, Duncan, of course," Alistair's grin brightened. "And Riordan. And Gregor - oh, Gregor's beard was something else, he could soak up an entire pint of ale with it. And he did! And, well, nine out of ten new recruits back at Ostagar. But I didn't know them all that well. Duncan did, though."

_Duncan and Riordan and this... beer-bathing bear named Gregor. All in all, it seems like quite a rowdy list of vagabonds to live up to._ "Nine out of ten, huh? Was Duncan was only keen on recruiting bearded women or hairy elves?" _Or Chantry boys barely old enough to shave._

"We had elves!" Alistair protested. "Um, not many women though, not until Solona anyway." He scratched his head. "Dunno why that was, really. But surely not because Duncan didn't like women, he did like them! Er, I mean, he liked them in a respectful and considerate way, I'm sure, not in a 'hey, bar wench, nice rack' sort of way, but um, anyway... I'll just... stop. Talking. Now. About Duncan's bar wenches' racks that is. It's impolite."

_Bar wenches!_ Loghain scoffed inwardly. _What travelling man would deny himself, and wait for the next town and its bar wenches, when he had this eager, strapping lad to warm his bedroll every night? _Loghain ignored Alistair's half-panicky stammering, trying to hold back a knowing smirk as he rinsed his dagger and wiped it dry on his smallclothes. He slung the wet rag over his shoulder and tossed the soap at an extremely red-faced Alistair as he strode over to the fire to dry off. "Wash your forehead," he grinned. "You've got elfroot mush all over it."

_Some cold water would do that burning face of his a world of good._

_

* * *

_

As the night deepened and grew colder, tendrils of fog slithered far and wide across the swamp grass and the marshes, thickening and twisting like the Veil that separated the living world from the Fade.

"Brr. Creepy, isn't it?" Alistair shuddered, eyeing the fog that coiled around the edges of their little gold circle of firelight. "Did you know, Flemeth the witch used to live in these Wilds. Good thing she isn't around anymore. That makes me feel a whole lot safer."

"What do you mean, she's not around?" Loghain said sharply, fixing Alistair with a searching stare. "How do you know? Has she left?" _Flemeth. The Witch of the Wilds. _Subject of folklore, fiction and fear. Her prophecies had left his blithe friend Maric pale and shaken; for all Loghain's hardbitten cynicism, they'd haunted him most of his life: ever since their encounter with her, when they'd both been little more than boys. Her condemnation of him to Maric still ached, an unhealed wound in the depths of his soul. 'Keep him close, and he will betray you. Each time worse than the last.'

_Lies, all lies! She's nothing but an evil bitch!_ came the ancient cry from his sore heart. But a cynical voice that sounded entirely too much like Flemeth's gravelly tones, parried _I always thought she lied about the Blight too_, _but she was _right _about that: the Blight she told Maric he'd never live to see._

Loghain stared at the young man who carried Maric's legacy as clear as day, in his face and in so much of his manner. Alistair's next words struck Loghain mute with disbelief, despite their stumbling simplicity,"Um. You could say Flemeth got into a fight she couldn't win. So, no, she didn't leave. She died."

Loghain swallowed, then at last summoned enough voice to croak, "Flemeth is dead?"

"Yes," Alistair nodded. "And good riddance!" Though his moment of triumph faded into one of his oddly endearing shamefaced looks. "Even though I probably shouldn't say that. She did save Solona and me, from the Tower of Ishal."

"Yes, she couldn't always accomplish her evil aims without doing _some _good along the way," Loghain growled, "I'm sure it pissed her off something wicked." He stared at Alistair. "But are you absolutely certain she's dead? There's no room at all for doubt? She didn't just disappear?"

"Oh yeah, she died. I was there. It was pretty hard to miss. Loud, for one thing. Messy. Morrigan wanted to dance on her grave, only it would've been far too much work to bury her. Not that we particularly wanted to," he added with a shrug.

Loghain scowled. "If this is one of your jokes..."

"It's not! If you want, I can take you to her hut and point out the spot where she died. Um, we took the scales but I expect the bones are still there."

Loghain frowned. "'Scales'?" he quoted, bewildered.

"Er, she turned herself into a dragon and tried to turn us into her dinner."

"A _dragon?_ And you lot still managed to kill her?" Loghain arched an eyebrow. It took an effort for him to bite back the skeptical remarks that clamoured to be said, since they wouldn't help the lad's lack of confidence. He settled for a token grumble, "If you're lying to me, I _will _find out."

"I don't lie! Not ever!" Alistair paused to think it over. "Well, maybe - sometimes - I don't say things I mean to say, and I should. Actually..." he inhaled, and looked up at Loghain, clear-eyed, somber. "I wasn't entirely honest today, when I said I wouldn't challenge your title."

Loghain sneered, but this time it wasn't all directed at Alistair. Most of his irritation was turned inward at himself, for having put too much trust in Alistair's words: as easy and pretty and shallow as he was. _I should've known he'd never support me._ "Already changed your mind, I see?"

"No!" Alistair cried at once. "I mean, someone has to be in charge; and Maker knows, it shouldn't be me. But I don't think you should lead the Wardens just because you're the only other one of us, or just because I want to get out of my share of responsibility. I actually think you'd make a better leader for the Wardens than I would."

"What?" Loghain breathed, staring at him utterly mystified. At last, and with a visible effort, he fell back on some nice safe grumbling. "Don't tell me you've harvested hemp along with your elfroot."

It was Alistair's turn to eyeroll and shake his head. The amusement faded from his expression quickly enough, and he regarded Loghain levelly. When he spoke, his voice was quiet and sombre. "I was the first one who called for your death. I even walked away from Solona and the Grey Wardens, because I couldn't stand it that you wouldn't be executed. I never thought the day would come when I'd even accept that you're alive, much less that you're a Grey Warden like me: someone I should welcome as a blood-brother." Alistair nodded and his stare was resolute. "But since the Landsmeet, I've remembered something I was taught once: that there are times when you have to do your best to forgive and forget, and move on and make the most of what life gives you. _That_'s what I meant. And I suppose I don't really mind you being the Warden Commander." Alistair bit his lip. "Even if that means you're also my commander."

Loghain's mouth had drawn into a tense, thin line: his throat was oddly tight. Perhaps in memory of Maric, who slowly drifted apart from his closest friend after Flemeth's prophecy; perhaps in shock that Maric's son was willing for him to lead, even though Alistair had a thousand reasons not to trust him at all. Loghain bowed his head, in a slow, stately nod of acknowledgement, and husked "Thank you." He swallowed, cleared his throat, and with an effort, forced his voice to an approximation of its usual steadiness. "If I'm in command, then I'll take the first watch. And my first order to you, is to get a good night's sleep this time!"

* * *

During Alistair's first year in the Chantry, he missed Arl Eamon's stables something awful. Instead of warm hay and friendly horses, there were schedules and chants and rules, and Sister Sarah was always watching them when the templars didn't bother. The orphan boys learned early on that Arl Eamon had brought him in, and that didn't do Alistair any favours. And the noble boys who came to the Chantry for lessons didn't like Alistair's looks or his manners. He lasted a few months being patient, until he finally had enough and punched a snobby noble kid right in the nose.

He ended up on his back in the dirt, with the kid's friends ganging up on him, stuffing his mouth full of dirt and giving him a few bruises. And then all the noise attracted the attention of Sister Sarah who'd swooped down on the lot of them and threatened them all with penances to serve. But Alistair didn't care. That snotty little sod had it coming, and he told her just that.

"You watch your language, young man," she tsked, inspecting his swollen eye with a touch that was gentle despite her sharp tone. She tilted her head and regarded him. "I suppose you might be excused the Chants of the Penitent, if you don't say anything to make it worse."

Alistair put on his best sunny smile. "Thank you, Sister. Can I go now?"

"Not yet," she stopped him. "That doesn't mean you get out of all penance, Alistair."

Alistair's shoulders slumped. "What is my penance then, Sister?" he asked in a small voice.

"One day," Sister Sarah replied, "maybe soon, maybe not, you'll meet someone who seems horrible, to the core. That day, your task will be to show them mercy. In here." she laid one hand over Alistair's chest. "And in here." Her cool fingers rested against his temple. "Does that sound reasonable?"

He frowned. The touch took all the fight out of him, but he wasn't willing to give up just yet. So he dug the toe of his boot into the mud, rubbed his good eye and grumbled, "Is that it then? I absolutely must forgive idiots?"

"Yes. But it's not just your penance, Alistair," Sister Sarah smiled. "It's also your duty, as one of the Maker's creatures to another. They deserve no less."

Maybe she was wrong. Maybe Loghain didn't deserve to be forgiven. But it wasn't a question of what he deserved. The thing was, Alistair had learned something surprising about Loghain. He really wasn't a demon.

Demons didn't get ridiculously attached to a stack of maps, and their expressions didn't soften every time they looked at a dog, and demons didn't pat dogs either. Demons didn't go all stiff and still as if the slightest touch frightened them, and they certainly didn't chuckle at jokes, or roll their eyes at Alistair's silly remarks. _No. _Alistair fingered the smooth onyx of the demon statuette in his pocket. Loghain really wasn't a demon. He probably wasn't much of a despot either: it would've been easy enough for him to take the crown after Cailan, if he'd wanted it. But he didn't; he remained Anora's Regent. And Alistair really didn't think Anora had been her father's puppet. Nobody who'd seen Queen Anora operate, as Alistair had over the past weeks, could ever mistake her for puppet material: not if they wanted to hang onto their balls.

No, Loghain was no demon. He was just a man, like Alistair. A bad man maybe, but not _all _bad. Alistair could remember very clearly how upset Loghain had been when that apostate got the drop on him, that fierce snarl on his face as he'd killed to set Alistair free. Loghain was human. And that made him qualified for the promise Alistair had made to the chantry sister that summer afternoon.

Alistair had to forgive him. Like he'd forgiven Eamon once, for making Alistair hope for more than he was worth and dream foolish dreams of family and future, and then casting him aside as soon as Alistair was old enough. And now Alistair had to forgive Loghain, for deeds that were far more unforgiveable than Eamon's.

And so he did. Because he _could_.

If he didn't, then who would?

Solona had forgiven Loghain, and Alistair had made the greatest mistake of his life and broken faith with her, because he hadn't understood her mercy at the time.

It was up to Alistair to do his best to make up for that mistake, and follow Solona's example.

* * *

**Footnotes**

1. The real world equivalent of Alistair's templar and Chantry sister tale usually involves a priest, a nun, and a game of golf.

2. Orris root seems the closest real world analogue to the elusive 'Distillation Agent', which the game says is made of rare (dried and powdered) bulbs found in the Frostback Mountains. Orris root, which grows best in cooler climates, is dried, distilled and used in exactly the way we described, as a fixative for the volatile essences in perfumes. The flower 'iris' and the ocular structure 'iris' are both named after the Greek goddess of rainbows, because both come in a wide range of colors. But since Ferelden didn't have Ancient Greece or its deities as part of its history, we fiddled the etymology, and related the flower to the eye, rather than relating both to the goddess.

3. Soap on a rope, a modern marvel popular amid Ferelden commoners, nobles, and clergy alike, is an Orlesian import, cleansed of its foreign ways by symbolic hanging, and useful in masking the ever-present stench of wet dog emanating from Ferelden's finest citizens. Needless to say, Loghain Disapproves -10 of the preceding sentence.


	6. The Fade

**CHAPTER 6: The Fade**

As he drifted in and out of the Fade, Alistair thought he sensed the darkspawn, like a growling black thundercloud closing fast on their tiny camp, borne ever closer on screaming storm winds. _The Blight's over, they're dead. Gone. They're not real. _Or so he told himself as he tried to relax and catch up on much-needed sleep.

The thundercloud didn't even slow down. It rumbled and roared and spread over the land, Blight more foul and corrupt than any plague. Ferelden seemed as tiny as Loghain's maps beneath that vast shadow of malice. It pulsed as it grew, devouring more land, more settlements, more people, with every shuddering, spreading beat.

_No! Nononono! I have to stop it! _Alistair ran toward it, his arms flung wide, his armor and weapons at hand. _Solona's gone so it's up to me now._

The thundercloud snarled its insatiable hunger, its endless lust for destruction. It was a monster as vast as the darkness under the earth, stalking its prey. Stalking Alistair.

He felt it gaping to devour the entire world, until nothing was left. Not the sun in the sky, not the stars. Not the rosebushes that had somehow survived Lothering, or the warm, hay-filled stables at Redcliffe, or even the palace at Denerim.

Nothing was left. Ferelden was wiped off the face of Thedas. Even Loghain's treasured maps curled and shrivelled and burned, like autumn leaves in a bonfire.

The pair of amulets around Alistair's neck were beating dull and heavy against his chest, as if his heart had hammered its way out of his ribs. He ran toward the unfurling cloud, sobbing and screaming and knowing it was hopeless. Knowing he was running to futile death.

He ran anyway, because there was nothing else he could do.

* * *

Alistair must've taken to heart Loghain's order to get some rest, because after Loghain surveyed the perimeter, he returned to the campfire to find Alistair curled up fast asleep, with the hound happily serving as his pillow. They were both quiet, save for soft, peaceful snores. Alistair's head and one hand rested on the mabari's broad back, and Alistair's uncurled fist lay next to his mouth. His lips were parted, as if he was just about to suck his thumb like a child.

Loghain settled a few steps away. Part of him monitored the sounds of the swamp, the pipings of frogs and the distant questions of owls, listening for any break in the soothing sounds that might hint at intruders. Part of him felt the beat of his tainted blood, basking in the soft warmth of Alistair's proximity, yet waiting for the poisonous pang that warned of approaching darkspawn. But most of him stayed spellbound by the peaceful sight of the man and dog at rest. Loghain grinned to himself, amused by the fact that an experienced warrior could still somehow manage to look so very young and so utterly innocent in his sleep.

Loghain continued to stand guard, watching over the pair of them. Alone as he was, he felt free to let his gaze linger on Alistair's lightly-fuzzed cheek and jaw, the cords of sinew in his bared throat, the relaxed sprawl of his limbs, one muscular arm stretched over the blanket. Alistair's short hair glinted in the red firelight, bright as new copper wire.

The mabari's ear twitched and lifted, as he opened his eyes and studied Loghain in the dark. Suddenly he let out a faint whine, barely heard but unmistakable. Then, the silent spell of Alistair's relaxation was broken as his eyes started to flick to and fro under his closed eyelids. A grimace twisted his face and his body flinched in his sleep, hands tightening into fists as his breathing hissed through clenched teeth.

It looked like a bad dream.

Loghain reached inward with all of his senses and felt a seismic ripple of unease in the warmth of the taint; at the same moment, Alistair's sleeping body thrashed. He rolled over, panting, blankets bunched up at his chest, tangled in his fists. The arch of his back turned his face to the firelight, teeth bared in a snarling rictus. He whispered something frantic and choked that sounded like a templar's chant.

_Definitely a bad dream. _Loghain remembered his own well enough, and he wasn't about to let a prolonged nightmare ruin Alistair's alertness during the second watch. _Enough._

Loghain knelt beside Alistair and laid his hand on the man's shoulder. Squeezed gently.

The chant stopped and Alistair drew a deep, shuddering breath, almost as frantic as his gasps after the apostate's crushing curse. Brown eyes snapped wide, glazed and blank with shock, as he flailed wildly, struggling to sit up.

"You're safe," Loghain told him, quiet but clear. "It wasn't real. Just a nightmare."

The uncoordinated thrashing stopped and sleep-dazed eyes blinked blearily, until at last Alistair focused on Loghain. "Ugh. That wasn't fun," Alistair mumbled, lifting his hands to his face and rubbing his eyes and cheeks. "Bleargh."

"Are you all right?" Loghain murmured.

"Yeah," Alistair ran his fingers through the cropped brush of his hair and shook his head, exhaling his frustration. "I... I bet it means we're getting close... to where we need to be," he suggested with a twitch to his lips.

"Perhaps." Loghain gave what he hoped was a reassuring smile, then he looked away, lifting his gaze to the stars and studying the familiar scatter of constellations. "It's still early. Try and get some more sleep."

"S'all right," Alistair gestured with one look at the sky and the moon setting into the fog. "Your turn. It's almost time for my watch anyway." He yawned cavernously and tried to stand, but his tossing and turning had tangled the blanket around his lower legs and feet. He managed to get to his knees, sleepily tried to shake one foot loose of the rumpled blanket, and staggered, still on one knee, overbalancing forward. One hand flew up reflexively to stop himself from falling flat on his face, and his hand closed on Loghain's thigh. He blinked down at his bedroll, fumbling dazedly with his free hand to untangle the blankets, leaning unconsciously all the while on Loghain. Only when he'd untangled his other foot, did he realise what - or who - he'd been using as support all this time. He drew back his hand. It wasn't quite the panicky snatch of unprotected skin away from hot coals, but it wasn't too far off.

Speaking of which, Alistair's face was doing a very good impersonation of hot coals. "Sorry," he mumbled, lurching to stand, kicking the last twists of blanket away from his feet.

Loghain reached out to steady the staggering man, hoping the gesture would be accepted as the simple reassurance he meant it to be. One hand closed on Alistair's shoulder. The taut muscle under his fingers was still warm with sleep. Alistair blinked, and their gazes met. It was then that Alistair's firelit eyes and his lopsided smile kindled something in Loghain, warmer than a touch, or even the heat of his blood at Alistair's proximity.

Sudden energy filled Loghain's body, worlds apart from the peace he'd felt earlier as he'd stood guard over Alistair, and watched him sleep. Loghain's heart began to pound, tainted blood racing, and he wished desperately that he knew _why_ he felt this strange, abrupt excitement. But he knew so little about the taint. Perhaps the uneasy surge he'd felt in the taint was the echo of some distant upheaval among the darkspawn, and it had affected them both: twisting Alistair's rest into nightmare, and seething still in Loghain's veins. Or perhaps Loghain had simply sensed Alistair's distress, echoing in his own tainted blood, driving it to a stronger beat.

Or perhaps the restless energy he felt now was the excitement of the wilderness, of freedom from the tapestry-and-stone cage of Denerim, of reunion with his first and oldest love: the land that had given him life, and which would embrace his body after his death.

When he'd travelled the Wilds with Maric, as a boy even younger than Alistair, it had been a heady time: he alone had held the young prince's life in his hands. Now that he was back in the Wilds, a thousand memories barraged him, revived by a thousand sensory impressions he'd thought he'd forgotten: the complex, wet scent of the swamps, the distant cries of marsh birds, the creeping fogs, the hidden bogs and treacherous turns of the road. They brought everything flooding back to him, as vivid as if it had all happened only yesterday: the tension and struggle and coiling anticipation, for the next victory or just the next breath.

And then there was this warmth, of another's touch. Beguilling, blazing. This sharp, heady reaction to physical contact wasn't new. Once upon a time, Maric's rare touch used to stir Loghain's blood just as vividly. Rowan's too, although Rowan stirred not only his blood but his very life: she could take his breath away with her mere presence.

After a long moment, far more intense than it should have been, Loghain let go.

It wouldn't do to hold on too long. Of course, the idea of some pleasure less solitary than his own hands was not unwelcome to Loghain, but he knew it was unwise. Alistair must have received a thorough introduction to campground trysts from Duncan, and Loghain could not boast of any similar experience.

It wasn't that Loghain had never heard of, or indeed never seen, such things. After all, these alliances were not that uncommon among the troops, and Loghain wasn't inclined to discourage them: from his observations, they relieved stress and promoted teamwork in battle. But it was a pleasure Loghain himself had never been seriously tempted by, because it simply wasn't worth the cost. Campground gossip being what it was, if he'd ever had any personal involvements, word would've got out, and that would certainly have eroded the soldiers' trust in the impartiality of their General's judgement.

And if Alistair was more experienced with men, there was a good chance that he'd pick up on Loghain's lack of such experience, and then take it the wrong way.

And it _was _the wrong way to take it. It _wasn't_ Alistair affecting Loghain. ...All right, it wasn't _only_ Alistair. It was Ferelden's wilderness, treacherous and untameable and unforgettable. It was Loghain's memories of a man long dead but still missed.

His best friend. His only friend.

Loghain took a step back from Alistair, breathing deep lungfuls of the damp, scent-heavy air, his roaming thoughts receding further into the past, retreating from the ambiguities of the present.

As Loghain stood lost in thought, Alistair shook out and gathered his bedroll into a neat bundle and used a spare belt to keep the blanket rolled until next use. When that task was done, he fired a quizzical look at Loghain. "Aren't you going to sleep?" he asked as he strapped the heavy scabbard to his belt and reached for his shield. "Didn't think _I'd _have to be the one reminding _you_ to get some rest."

"Oh very well." As methodical as Alistair was about rolling up his blanket, Loghain was every bit as methodical, if not more so, with his roll of maps. He first studied the Immunity and Barrier runes etched into the hardened leather cylinder, checking that the runes' Lyrium was still bright, before he opened the map case and verified that the damp weather hadn't affected the precious parchments or inks within.

"_Some_body's still obsessed, I see." Alistair rolled his eyes at Loghain, before throwing a conspiratorial glance in Dog's direction. He snorted amusement when he was met only with Dog's industriously digging hindquarters. Even as Loghain was indulging his obsession with maps, the dog was catching up on his determination to dig his way to the centre of the earth.

"Obsessed, hm?" Loghain looked up from stowing the map case in a saddlebag. He smirked knowingly at Alistair, "Like you with that rotten cheese?"

"It's not rotten! It's proper blue vein. And anyway, you're one to talk, with that huge roll of maps. Why do you need more than one, anyway?"

"Well of course I need more than one map! In case it's escaped your notice, Thedas has more than one country. And borders change over time," Loghain informed him with a smug smirk. "Just ask the Orlesians. Maric and I made a lot of work for their cartographers, reducing the borders of the Orlesian Empire."

"Ah, so it's a reminder then." Alistair shrugged. "If you're going senile, old man, can't you just write yourself a note: 'Yay, we won!' and spare yourself the trouble of lugging that big case around?"

"Maps are more than a reminder," Loghain replied loftily. "They are history, and art. They save lives by leading the lost out of the wilderness," he turned and gave the saddlebag and its precious cargo a proud look, "and they achieve the impossible: making sense of the vast maze of Thedas, and fitting the whole round world into the space of a single sheet of parchment."

Alistair looked a bit taken aback by Loghain's speech. He blinked, but rallied a moment later, firing back a cheeky grin and a teasing "Still sounds like a map fetish to me!"

"Fetish? You mispronounced 'intellectual appreciation'," Loghain grumbled.

"Ha!" Alistair waved him off. "Appreciation maybe, but not intellectual. Yeah, definitely obsessive." He made a face. "And a bit, well, disturbing."

"Disturbing?" Loghain bristled. "What's so 'disturbing' about collecting rare examples of the cartographer's art?" _Hmph, it's far more disturbing to hear that he thinks that cheese hairier with mould than his chin is with beard, is some sort of gourmet treat._ _Not to mention this tendency of his to panic whenever his thoughts stray below his waist! How he manages to bathe is beyond me._

"Do you even have to ask?" Alistair snorted. "Two words for you: 'Mount Loghain'!"

"Hmph! Just so you know, it's a label, not an order."

"Hey! I should hope not! Given my experience with mounts, you'd be even less cooperative than your horse!"

"Oh? Just what _is_ your experience?" Loghain smirked, enjoying the verbal sparring, and happily anticipating a payoff in the form of a spectacular blush any time now. "What exactly did you do to my poor horse? And why didn't she kick you from here to Orlais?"

"What?" Alistair stammered. "Oh Maker! I can assure you that is _not_ what former stable boys do for fun!"

"Ah, I see... So, what _do_ they do for fun? Each other?" Loghain could practically feel the flush flood Alistair's face at the question. It was so easy to yank the Chantry boy's chain. Not that Loghain was enjoying it... well, maybe a little. But from a practical perspective, whatever kept Alistair awake and alert for his watch couldn't be bad.

"What? NO!" Alistair gulped, and then murmured something that sounded suspiciously like a chant. "I can't believe I'm even talking to you about this! Any of it!"

"_**I**_ can't believe a simple discussion has you so flustered," Loghain parried easily. "Why are you so tense? Just from thinking about something that should feel good."

"I'm not tense!" Alistair gestured wildly. "I'm just... I don't see the point."

"Oh, you're not _just _tense," Loghain drawled. "You're scared by the mere idea."

"I am _not_ scared! I just don't see why the whole world is obsessed with that sort of thing all the time. Why is it that _not _leaping into other people's beds, or _not_ boasting about your private affairs from every street corner, or - or _not _going through every brothel your money can get you into, is somehow unusual!"

Loghain huffed. "Did I even once mention brothels? For what it's worth, I agree with you there. Leaving aside the high chances of ending up robbed or diseased, I'm sure most people would rather indulge with someone they at least know, as opposed to some stranger whose only interest is coin."

"Exactly!"

"Fortunately, there's a whole world of possibilities that have nothing to do with brothels, and are even more pleasant."

"It's not 'pleasant'! It's serious!" Alistair cried. "And it can go horribly wrong! There's all those expectations, and what if you make a mistake and, and, and _kids _happen! And sometimes they happen when they really really shouldn't!" He released a weary sigh. "_I _should know."

Loghain winced at Alistair's last remark, and his previously intent gaze drifted away, to the distance, to the past. He gave a sigh of his own. "It _can_ get very serious indeed," he agreed, "if men and women are careless with each other. But..." he studied Alistair's expression. _Surely he won't be so upset if I mention people he likes. _"...that's not the only possibility. For example," he confided, "I'm quite sure that, given half the chance, Leliana would've been happy to trip Solona and beat her to the floor."

"Oh, you noticed that too, huh?" Alistair's small smile was a strange combination with the persistent traces of blush. "I knew it! All that shoe talk. And that giggling from the tent when they were... um... trying on each other's shoes or something. And flowers." He shook his head, but the smile lingered. "Dunno what Solona was thinking giving her flowers. That was bound to be misinterpreted, even I know that." He nodded sagely at his own conclusion.

Loghain huffed dryly. "Shoes. Of all the things for a reasonably intelligent woman to be so obsessed about." He sighed, "In any case, what I meant was, I strongly suspect there was a fair bit of fun between Solona and Leliana." Loghain smiled to himself and looked at the lad, his gaze as direct and unwavering as the point of a poised arrow. "And then," he murmured, "there was you, polishing Duncan's blade."

"Yeah, but..." Alistair's eyebrows drew together, and his eyes widened at once. "By blade, you mean - wait, _what_? You mean you thought_ Duncan_ was...! and and and _I_ was...! and _we_ were...!" Alistair stuttered to a halt, doe-eyes _so_ wide and dark, so utterly gobsmacked. After staring at Loghain for a long, breathless moment, mouth literally agape, Alistair gestured wildly and croaked out, "_Why_?"

It was a pity Loghain wasn't in any state of mind to bask in a well-earned sense of triumph at achieving the near-impossible feat of rendering the chatty brat speechless. Instead, he too was blindsided by Alistair's utterly astonished stare, his innocently stunned tone. "You mean you _weren't?_"

"Of course I wasn't! I was just polishing his blades! As in, actual blades! And actual polishing!"

"Well why _weren't_ you?" Loghain cried. "You keep telling me you're not a templar, so you hadn't taken any vows of chastity. And you were obviously besotted by the man."

Alistair blinked. "I _was_?" He bit his lip. "Why would you even say that? No. You're wrong! I wasn't... besotted, I was just... Oh, Maker! Look, he was _Duncan_, and he was the first one who really believed in me, and he was my _commander!_ And... we didn't know each other that well, it'd only been months... okay, many months, I suppose. But it's not like we could... how would that even work anyway? I couldn't just say, 'Hey, Duncan, fancy joining me in my tent tonight?' and he'd say 'Oh, Alistair, thought you'd never ask,' and we'd be..." Alistair ran his hands through his short hair. All the while, his face was positively incandescent with blush. "Right, what am I saying!" he cried, shaking his head fiercely. "Trust me, nothing like that _ever_ happens between Wardens! Ever! There'd be no sense in even trying! Not with the Blight. And not even without one. It's Grey Wardens! There was duty, and recruitment, and ...stuff."

"But don't you see?" Loghain breathed. "There will always be 'duty, and recruitment, and stuff.'" Loghain's gaze was level and understanding, his smile rueful and wry. "Don't dismiss pleasure as something that's _always_ meaningless, or selfish, or deviant, or wrong. Because it's not. Don't wait 'til you're my age, and look back on your life, and realise too late, that duty has crowded out _everything_ else." Loghain sighed, so quiet his last words could barely be heard, "Even living."

"I..." Alistair drew a breath and said nothing else. Instead he absorbed Loghain's words in silence for a while. "...I see."

"Take it from someone who knows," Loghain murmured, low and husky and infinitely sad, "There's nothing you can do to get back wasted time."

Alistair met Loghain's gaze, and the look in his brown eyes was warm, questioning. He didn't say anything, just acknowledged the warning with a sigh and a silent nod. After a pause, he waved at Loghain's armor, awkward but trying to be nonchalant about it, "Did you - um - did you want your plate off?"

Loghain gave a small smile. "I'd like that." He turned his back, tacitly offering the hard to reach buckles. A sidelong glance over one shoulder gave him a glimpse of a young man whose expression was uncertain, and perhaps curious, but was free of the anger and bitterness that had filled him at the Landsmeet. What a difference their time together had made.

Alistair came closer and slid his hands over the buckles. He moved so quietly, it was as if he held his breath the entire time. Or perhaps it was Loghain who did the same. Deft fingers took care of the straps of Loghain's armor at an unhurried pace. Alistair's hands moved over the dragonscale covering Loghain's broad back with an odd grace and reverence, like a templar tending to Andraste's flame, like an apprentice over his master's anvil.

Loghain bowed his head and closed his eyes. Apart from that, he stood very still. Only his chest moved as he released the same slow, deep sigh that he gave the first time Alistair squired for him.

Alistair had told Loghain he needed to relax back then. The advice was even more pertinent now, as Loghain fought down a most inopportune response to Alistair's proximity, to his gentle, accidental touches.

Once out of his armor, Loghain nodded thanks to Alistair and turned determinedly away, lying down on his bedroll, wrapping himself in his blankets and closing his eyes. But for a long while afterwards, the energy simmering in his blood kept his mind active, his heartbeat fast.

He blamed that energy on anything he could. On whatever twist of the taint had given Alistair his nightmare. On the nighttime song of the Wilds. On his memories of Maric, of Rowan. On the wide open sky arching above them like an upturned bowl, full of stars and darkness so deep that looking up at it felt like falling up into it.

He blamed it on one thing after another, until he could almost believe that what he felt wasn't simple, human need.

Almost.

* * *

The memory of Alistair followed Loghain into the Fade with the persistence of a desire demon. Only there, Alistair hadn't stayed kneeling at Loghain's feet. He'd risen to both knees and laid both hands on Loghain's thighs, sliding them around to draw him close. At that slow deliberate caress, Loghain's black scale armor had softened and fallen into shards, curling into plumes, floating around his naked body, caressing it with soft flicks. Weightless clouds of drifting feathers, black as crows, glossy as ravens. Loghain snatched at the spiralling quills, filling his hands with their sleekness, knowing exactly how he'd use them to fletch the deadliest arrows in the history of Thedas.

Then Alistair drove all thought of arrows and feathers from his mind by simply turning his head and nuzzling into Loghain's groin, as naturally as if he did it every day, opening his mouth and licking Loghain's cock, wetly, instinctively, enthusiastic and shameless as a puppy. Loghain rolled onto his back, moaning, floating in midair in the Fade's hazy dreamscape, naked and carefree and welcomed, adrift on a lazily rocking sea of languid, dreamlike pleasure, waves of bliss rising with unhurried ease to a tantalising peak, just out of reach, nearly there, nearly...

Abruptly the soft rocking jolted him harder, shaking his shoulder, shaking him -

_- awake!_

Loghain was panting, every muscle rock-hard; his erection throbbed angry as a wound. Extreme frustration exploded in an inarticulate snarl, because he _couldn't_ give himself even the stroke or two that was all it would take to finish himself off, _not _in front of Alistair. Wild eyed, he clutched at his own knees in a last ditch attempt to stop his hands from converging on his aching cock. "_What?"_

"Um," Alistair answered, ever so eloquent, giving no concrete answer at all. "All right there?"

_No! _"Maker dammit!" Loghain cried, as no attackers descended on their small camp, as the skies didn't split in two, as the ground remained just as steady as before. "Why'd you have to wake me _then?_"

"Er, you were really restless. Moaning in your sleep. I figured it must've been really bad. Like mine."

_Like mine..._ Loghain's hazy mind struggled to make sense of it. ..._A nightmare. He thinks I had a darkspawn nightmare._ "Well it wasn't." It was said in a grumble, but at least it wasn't the snarl or the swearing that would have more accurately conveyed his current mood.

Alistair must've picked up something from his expression though, because earnest concern was still clear in his face. Until Alistair's gaze drifted downward, and his eyes widened before he frantically looked away and refused to even glance in Loghain's direction. The blush rose up his throat, as distinct as a tide of blood, suffusing his face with a sunset-vivid glow.

Judging by Alistair's blush, it would be hard... _difficult_ to say which of them was more embarrassed. Loghain bent his legs, pulling the blanket in a tent over his knees so it hid his erection completely. He fought the urge to curl up further, into a ball, so he could drop his forehead on his knees and not have to look at Alistair's incandescent face, and not have Alistair staring at him. If only curling up in a ball wasn't such an undignified posture.

Alistair looked distressed enough to flee, but instead he murmured to a nearby log more or less in Loghain's general direction, stammering through every word. "Er... Just so you know, like hair growth, t-that's part of the Warden changes too. Stamina. Yeah. I'm sure you've noticed. By now." He let out an awkward laugh. "A natural occurrence, really. I guess the taint does odd things to us all, despite the age, apparently," he said in a voice that could hardly have sounded less natural. He scratched the back of his head, like he had when confessing he'd left Loghain's maps behind: clearly it was a nervous mannerism. "I suppose we've both got that to look forward to for many years... a-anyway. Um. Chants!" he croaked, glazed-eyed and desperate. "Chants do help with that, oddly enough."

"'Chants'?" Loghain quoted, aghast. "That's the last thing _I_ would've thought to do about it!"

_And... 'age'? Where the fuck does he get off saying things like that?_ But Loghain's fury faded quickly enough as he realised, _Oh, wait, he doesn't get off, not if he can help it. Poor bastard._

"Uh-huh!" Alistair's face brightened and he all but heaved a sigh of relief as Loghain allowed him to steer the conversation toward slightly less embarrassing waters. "Canticle of Trials, mostly, if you remember it, but any chant is good, really. You don't have to be a templar to recite them."

'Oh yeah, very funny,' Loghain was about to answer, but then he took in Alistair's earnest, helpful expression and the complete lack of any impishness or amusement. Loghain _knew _there was absolutely no chance Alistair could ever be serious about this but… apparently, he was. _You poor bastard_, Loghain thought. _You might've escaped a templar's vows, but the Chantry's still got its claws in you, in so many ways._

"Here," Alistair gave an unsure smile when Loghain was too stunned to answer. "I can teach you Trials. S'easy to recite, really. Anywhere from 'my enemies are abundant, many are those who," he paused and cleared his throat, "r-rise up... against me.' Um. Maybe not Trials," he muttered. "But the Canticle of Threnodies is good, it'd make any spirit you had left wilt along with the flesh," he nattered on. "And - um - if all else fails, I haven't done it of course, but I heard others tried -" he lowered his voice, "if you're really, really determined, and not fond of, er, wilting, just recite the Canticle of Andraste and picture the, um, heavenly embrace in verse fourteen in detail."

… _Ugh!_ Loghain did his best to keep the grimace of sympathetic revulsion off his face, listening in disbelief as the poor sod basically confessed that the Chantry had twisted him into using religious chants to repress his body's natural urges, instead of enjoying the simple, normal relief of his own hands.

"That'll... um, take care of it, hopefully. I believe Andraste would probably be tolerant of us trying to recreate the heavenly embrace in our minds. After all, we all need something to strive toward."

"Andraste," Loghain echoed, incredulous. "I see." His mind was blank with shock. All he could think was, _You poor bastard. You poor, poor bastard._

Alistair just widened his nervous grin. "There's a verse for every occasion, right?" he concluded with a weak chuckle. "At least that's what the Chantry always says."

"I bet they do," Loghain drawled. _Can't let the templars get too relaxed, or let them find pleasure anywhere other than their Chantry-regulated doses of Lyrium._ "Thanks for the advice," he told the earnest lad, if only to stave off any more helpful offers of cock-wilting chants.


	7. Names

**CHAPTER 7: Names**

_Well, that was awkward._ In fact, awkward didn't even begin to cover it. Normally when Alistair felt this awkward he'd go off and do something relaxing, like hiding out somewhere away from all the campfire commotion and polishing his sword in silence. But with all the dirty-minded implications of polishing blades that Loghain was throwing around so casually, Alistair certainly wasn't about to whip his weapon out where Loghain could leer at it and make all the wrong assumptions.

_Maker's breath, and I thought listening to Oghren and Zevran was bad! It's the silent, brooding types you've really got to watch! _

_Chant. _Yes, you couldn't go wrong with the Chant, for any occasion. It was just like what Loghain said about his precious maps: 'history and art.' The Chant of Light was definitely full of history, and it was art, and poetry, occasionally even good poetry. And guidance. And it saved lives too: it had saved Alistair's life in battle many times. Even the boring verses. Or the fun verses. Or the Dissonant ones.

The Chant was useful in many ways. It even made talking about taboos somewhat acceptable. For example ... taking yourself in hand. Everyone did it of course, when they absolutely had to, but who in Thedas would be shameless enough to come right out and admit it? But toss a mention of a Chant in there, and even something that horribly embarrassing became sort of, almost, acceptable.

Acceptable as a discreet word or two strictly between Brothers, anyway; he'd just die if any Chantry Sister or Revered Mother ever heard him talking about things like that! But younger Brothers in the Chantry, well, they were a special case, newly beset by their carnal urges and always, always tempted by them. It was almost like a templar version of the taint. It was probably why you never saw a Brother too high up in Chantry's hierarchy. Brothers weren't holy enough to rise above their base, bodily lusts.

But anyway, he didn't have to worry any more about the Chantry or the vows templars were bound to obey. The taint took precedence over all that. Alistair didn't have Chantry Brothers anymore. He had the Warden kind.

He had Loghain.

And if Alistair remembered something useful from his templar days, he was only glad to pass on the knowledge, to someone he now trusted to watch over him while he slept.

Yes. Perhaps he should give Loghain some more tips sometime, since he seemed sympathetic and willing enough to listen. It was pretty surprising of him, actually. Most people just dismissed Alistair's ramblings, paying less attention to his words than to the chanters at the village notice boards.

He was going to talk to Loghain. So he was really surprised when Loghain asked about it first.

"Do you honestly think that the Chantry is bound to know _best _about such matters?"

_Good point. _Alistair drew a breath. "Well, you see, the short answer is: no, no one's bound - er - knows best, but if you look at it from all angles..."

* * *

_Serves me right for asking..._ Loghain was seriously starting to regret bringing up anything to do with the faith. _If I thought he was chatty before..._ Loghain boggled silently as the tide of words continued to wash over him. He could feel his eyes glazing over as the wittering went on...

"... so you see, that's how they've got themselves all worked out," Alistair informed him. "With the Revered Mother and the young Mothers and Sisters always in charge of the holy relics and the flame and the chantry rites and stuff. Sure, there are templars that are part of the Chantry, but templars always have to fight their carnal urges, just as they have to fight physically. They are the dirtiest part of the whole thing, the ones with blood on their hands who have to be kept in the lower ranks."

Loghain scoffed at that idea. The words could almost sound reasonable on the surface, if you weren't listening too closely, but something in Alistair's earnest ramblings left a bad taste in his mouth.

"Trust me, templars can't ever be left in charge," Alistair carried on. "Just think of what they'd do if they were! Sure, they've got their purpose. To serve and protect, but the Order requires _so _much more from them." He grimaced. "Plenty of people will tell you that what they do is noble, but if you look underneath all the pretty words, it's nothing but a Thedas-wide magehunt. And it's not just the mages either. Look at the elves. Did you know there used to be elven names in the official chant? Shartan, Thane Shartan. Beautiful verse." He shook his head. "Wasn't sung properly for ages, probably won't ever be again."

Loghain listened in silence. As Alistair spoke, his expression was vivid with passionate interest in his topic. Alistair was such an odd mixture of contrasts: a templar-trained soldier, indoctrinated so that he should only be fit to be a puppet, yet still Alistair thought for himself. He hated the templars enough to break their stranglehold on the mages, yet he admired and studied the Chant as intensely as minstrels like Leliana admired their music. He relied on those verses to keep him alive in battle, yet when a mage used them against Alistair, he let them distract him, almost fatally. He unflinchingly stated the views of an apostate, yet so many of the Chantry's biases still weighed down his thoughts like drag anchors.

At the mention of deviant things, his breath caught and his face coloured with curiosity as well as embarrassment. Yet he was so utterly naive about any matter of the flesh.

Alistair was a mixture of contrasts. A fascinating contradiction.

Alistair remained silent for awhile and then shook his head. "But I'm not being fair. Not all of the Chantry is as corrupt as the Order. There are peaceful ways, better people. Look at all the good they accomplished during the Blight, all the survivors they've helped."

_Look at all the evil they turned a blind eye to,_ Loghain thought bitterly, _that they __**helped**__, during the Occupation, in their haste to hand Ferelden over to their so-called 'Divine' in Orlais._

Alistair sighed. "In a way, the Chantry Sisters have it easier. Women are stronger, more faithful; they can resist the urges, remain untempted, and focus on the good things: Andraste and the Chant and the higher purpose... I don't know how they do it, dedicate their entire life to something so demanding. You should have heard Leliana talk about it... oh stop that! I can tell you haven't set one foot in a Chantry for years! But the true believers... I've seen them. Take any Revered Mother worth her title, you get them talking about Andraste, genuinely talking, and even their faces glow. That's true faith." Alistair bowed his head. "But who am I to talk about that? I've seen the blood and the dirt, and I know enough chants to be useful, but I've never felt uplifted, not by any of it. Not like them. Perhaps I'm just..." he shrugged. "Crippled inside?"

Loghain stared at Alistair. Simply stared. Thunderstruck. _Has he ever once wondered if he's been kneeling in the wrong way and place to really feel ...uplifted? If he offered himself to them for so long, only to be ignored, then no wonder he feels like he's unworthy. Crippled._

Alistair's eyes narrowed in contemplation. "Maybe there are more templars like me, I never asked. Maybe I should've discussed it with someone, because if there are more like me, maybe that's why the templars are the way they are -"

"Maker's balls!" Loghain snapped, deliberately coarse, hoping to shock Alistair into paying attention.

Alistair's warm eyes widened, focusing first on Loghain and then on the bend of the road. He grabbed the hilt of his sword, but when all remained quiet, he turned back to Loghain. "Huh?"

"You never took templar vows, and you haven't been under the Chantry's heel for... for how long now? Ages!"

Alistair shrugged. "Since conscription. I suppose sometimes it feels like ages."

"So _why _do you persist in locking yourself into their mental cock cage?"

"_What_cage?" Alistair yelped. His eyes went wide and glazed, and his lips parted. He swallowed and croaked, "_Please_, tell me that, uh, that ...cage, is a metaphorical concept."

Loghain kicked himself. _So much for getting him to pay attention! Damn that bondage kink of his! If the thought of spidersilk left him hot and bothered, I can only imagine what this idea will do. He'll chant 'til he's hoarse!_ He shrugged mental shoulders and gave up._ Oh well, he'll never concentrate on serious issues now. I may as well have fun yanking his …'chain'._ Aloud, he drawled only, "What do _you _think?"

Loghain watched Alistair's lips, but they didn't move. _At least he's managed not to chant this time._ Though that oddly endearing blush was as bright as ever. Apparently the mental image planted by Loghain's words was rather successful at chasing away the hypnotic gibberish that left the most devout chanters in a daze.

"Why are you asking me?" Alistair huffed, "Where would _**I**_ ever have seen one? And anyway," his eyes lit up with something that seemed like genuine innate curiosity, "how would that even _work_?"

Loghain grinned sharply. "Don't ask questions," he rumbled, "until you really want to know the answers."

"Hey, what makes you think I can't figure it out on my own? With any cage I've ever seen, I had to get into it for a while so I could learn how to get out of it. And as far as mental ones go, I guess I'll have to try stretching my thoughts outside that particular cage in order to uncock-" Alistair gulped, "- er, lock, I mean. Un-_lock_ it!"

Loghain stared for one long, frozen moment, and then exploded into laughter.

* * *

A few hours later, they walked side by side south along the narrowing trail that was the Imperial Highway this far south, leading the laden horse. Alistair turned to Loghain, nodding at the mabari, who was trotting ahead of them in a grassy ditch by the side of the road. "I know he's a dog, but what else are we going to call him?" Alistair asked. "We can't keep just calling him Dog."

"Why can't we?" Loghain frowned, wondering why Alistair even brought up the issue. … _Wait... we? What's this 'we'? _He shoved away that particular thought.

"Ha, see? You're so not a proper owner! Can't even think of a name for the poor beast!"

"Dog was Solona's name for him."

"But it's not really a _name_, is it? I mean, how'd you like it if everyone just called you Man? He needs a proper name."

"Well, out with it," Loghain eyerolled, "Obviously you've had some sort of brilliant idea, or you wouldn't have brought it up in the first place."

Alistair struck a heroic pose in the middle of the path, drawing himself up to his full height and puffing out his chest. He drew a breath. "Barkspawn!"

Loghain stared, aghast. The dog let out a scared 'Yipe-yipe-yipe!'

"Oh, you like that?" Alistair called to the hound, "Do you boy? See, he does! Barkspawn it is!" Alistair declared happily. "Brilliant, innit? No need to thank me! Happy to help."

"Well, that's one thing you're right about," Loghain declared dryly. "Bad things really do happen when you lead!"

The hound bounded up to Alistair, but instead of pouncing him or licking his hand, the dog lifted his leg and tried to make his opinion well and truly felt.

"Argh!" Alistair jumped out of the way, only barely in time, shaking his boot just in case. "Stop that! You really do have it in for my socks, you mutt!"

The dog dug his hind feet in the mud and kicked backwards, like he did against countless watered landmarks significant only to him: trees and hedges and barrels and their tiny smokeless campfire, which he put out every morning.

Loghain grinned broadly. "Goooood boy," he purred. He cast Alistair a triumphant glare. "Good _Dog_!"

Dog panted happily up at him, stumpy tail wagging.

"For the record," Loghain informed the hound, "you don't need to listen to him. You're a true purebred mabari of Ferelden. _He_'s the mutt."

"Hey!" Alistair cried. "Watch who you're calling a mutt! I'm a purebred human!"

"Ah, but _are _you?" Loghain drawled, "Maric did have a huge thing for elves." Outwardly, Loghain grinned but inwardly he grimaced. _Gah! Stop thinking about Maric's huge thing! And definitely stop wondering if his kid inherited that particular one of his father's assets._

* * *

Deeper and deeper into the Blighted lands they traveled. Loghain saw and felt the parts of the Wilds where not only the earth was blackened by the taint, but the bogs, and the plants: from the smallest patch of moss to the tallest tree. The contaminated land breathed its slow poison to trespassers with every step, every drop of water, every touch. And not just unwary travellers were affected. The Wilds had its share of beasts that had been maddened and twisted by the Blight.

They had a run in with a pack of Blighted wolves as big as mabari and twice as ferocious, and the giant spider that attacked Dog had been so corrupted it made Loghain's blood ache almost as badly as a genlock.

If any human ventured here for too long, surely they would rapidly descend into the madness of the ghoul. It was different for Wardens: they couldn't become any more tainted than they already were. The resistance of their bodies was tested past the breaking point and strengthened by the Joining ritual; their corruption was delayed for decades but inevitable in the end. Born of the Blight as much as these lands, they were a part of it now, for better or worse, as much as the wolves and the spiders and the knotted, gnarled roots of the brambles.

Nothing much could be done about cleaning corrupted blood from their armor and weapons, beyond rinsing them with blackened water and wiping them on tainted moss, before the next fight. But Loghain tried to choose a patch of land for their camp that didn't bring a vague, uneasy pang to his blood. He did his best to avoid unnecessarily exposing his mount to the sickness of his beloved and now tainted lands.

Now more than ever, Loghain was glad of the Dog's tolerance of the taint. And no wonder: in every fight, the hound swallowed mouthfuls of darkspawn blood. He'd even bitten the Archdemon repeatedly and survived. Evidently the exposure had been enough for a mabari version of the Joining. Enough to leave him as blissfully unaffected and immune to the taint as Alistair.

As for himself, Loghain wasn't afraid of the corruption, and not only because as a Warden he only had to worry about the taint catching up to him decades into the future. How could he shy away? It was his beloved land that now lay poisoned. He would no sooner turn from it than he would from a parent's bedside. Wounded though it was, Ferelden was still strong. It was still free.

Land was ageless, immortal, constant. It never abandoned you, leaving behind only memories, disappointments and regrets. Of everything that Loghain dedicated his life to, gave his heart to, only Ferelden had never betrayed his trust or broken his heart.

He trusted it as he did none other.

As long as it remained free, Ferelden could endure anything and emerge victorious from it. Even this devastation would not last forever. Bit by bit, as long as the darkspawn stayed underground, the taint would retreat, driven back year by year. Blighted plants would be burned by clean sun and replaced by new plant growth, and tainted beasts would die off, unable to reproduce.

Loghain had faith in the land of his birth. He knew, as sure as the next sunrise, that the day would come when even the blackest part of Ferelden would be free of the Blight.

* * *

By the campfire that night, Loghain unrolled a map from his collection. It showed a landscape stained not by the Blight, but by a deadly force far more tragic because it was entirely human: the Orlesian occupation. It wasn't his oldest map, but it was his rarest. Most of its kind were destroyed as swiftly as any reminder of the invaders' reign over his land, but Loghain had preserved this one, as a memorial and a warning. It showed Ferelden's lands as they once were: enslaved to Orlais. Every hill, every river, every village had been stained by Orlesian names as those pompous bastards hurried to brand their spoils as soon as possible after claiming them.

Although insults were the first Orlesian words that Loghain learned as a child, as an adult he could read the Orlesian cartographer's names on this map with equal ease.

He made it a point to know his foes, even better than their supporters knew them.

These days, the occupation might have been written off as ancient history by some, but as long as he lived, Loghain would never forget.

Instead of rolling the map and putting it away, he beckoned Alistair over. "Take a look at this."

_With Ferelden's Chantry bending over for Val Royeaux like an Orlesian whore, and with Eamon as good as abandoning Alistair on their doorstep, I may as well be the first to teach him something useful about his past, his father, and his country._

_Maric would have wanted him to know._

"What's that?" Alistair strode over and peered at the map unfurled in Loghain's lap, where the firelight fell on the parchment. Alistair tilted his head, trying unsuccessfully to decipher the notation. "Hey, is that in Orlesian?"

"It's high time you learned to navigate properly. Show me where we are on the map."

"If you want me to tell you, at least give me a map I can read!" Alistair protested, squinting. "It's all drawn wrong. I can't even tell Redcliffe from Denerim."

Loghain ran his hand over the familiar patchwork of lakes and forests, the network of roads and rivers. "You don't need words," he told Alistair. "Names don't last forever. And they can change in the blink of an eye, depending on who the cartographer is. The land, though, the rivers and the seas, their shape is the same, as long as man has lived. Embed it in your mind. Learn the face of the land, as it was, is, and will be. Only then can you name it your own, and know it, understand it and protect it from harm." He raised his head at Alistair and stared, waiting for his words to sink in. "Now, trace our path from the landmarks you remember, and tell me where we are."

Alistair knelt by Loghain's side and bent his head over the parchment. He released a deep sigh. "All right. Fine. This squiggly stain over here has to be Lake Calenhad, but it's all sideways, so if we turn the map like this, the bottom line is Drakon River. We crossed it when we came through Lothering. So _this_ is south and we've gone this way. Maker's breath, they hardly bothered mapping anything south of Lothering, didn't they? Even the templar maps have a better view of the Wilds than this, and trust me, templar maps are nothing to be proud of... all right, Ostagar... we've got to be pretty close to..." Alistair stared at Loghain's map with more concentration than King Cailan had ever shown when planning military strategy. After a pause, he lifted his hand and planted his finger in the empty space over Loghain's knee. "Here."

Loghain's lips twitched in a smile.

"Well, am I right?"

He arched one quizzical brow at Alistair. "Well, are you?"

"Oh, don't give me that! I know you know. And I don't see why you don't fill in the proper shapes and landmarks on these maps of yours. You might as well, you're already passing through these parts, you've seen all of the mistakes."

Loghain smirked, unrolling a different parchment. "What makes you think I haven't been doing just that?"

It was a map Alistair had never seen before. Loghain held it open, displaying the freshly inked network of paths and tiny streams, the blotches of bogs and the charcoal shadow of the tainted lands. Larger scale than the others, the map covered the path of their journey, from when they'd first entered the Wilds. Ostagar was already drawn in near the bottom of the map, as well as the surrounding roads, all marked for safe escape routes and potential causes for alarm.

Loghain anchored the parchment on the ground with stones at each corner, and reached for a writing kit. A quill that he hadn't used to fletch an arrow. A bottle of ink. A few sticks of wax, but no engraved seal, for he'd been stripped of all titles before becoming a Grey Warden.

"Hey, you're fast!" Alistair peered at the parchment. "Here's the hills we passed just yesterday, and here's the marshes." He ran a careful hand over the shaded areas. "Oh. You're tracking the taint in the land, aren't you?"

Loghain nodded.

"Maker!" Alistair breathed softly, appalled. "It's just been getting darker and darker as we've gone further south. And this bit over here. You felt it too? Gah, I knew that cavern entrance was swarming with something! It made me itch all over as we passed by."

As Alistair spoke, Loghain picked a piece of charcoal out of the fire and rubbed it into the parchment with his fingertips, variation in the darkness of the shading reflecting the varying ache in his blood. "It makes sense for someone who knows what to look for, to record the dangers, leave a warning for others," he muttered as he worked. "And no one but Wardens can sense it until it's too late."

Alistair watched as Loghain filled in careful degrees of shading along the road, recording today's travel, including where they'd stopped for the night. "Our camp is clear," Alistair smiled. "The clearest patch around these marshes. You've - uh - got a knack for picking these things out."

Loghain looked up at him. Pale eyes caught the firelight, searching. "You should too. After all, we both survived the same Joining."

Alistair shook his head. "Never thought about it like that. I guess I could, maybe. But this is so many shades of elaborate. I can't keep track of all that. The taint, it just hits me when darkspawn's near: zap! and ugh! My skin crawls and I'm burning all over. Mind you, with Duncan, I could guess pretty well where he was." He closed his eyes, frowning as he concentrated. His head turned toward Loghain. "Now that you mention, I think I can do it with you too. A bit. You don't burn me, not like a darkspawn or anything." Alistair's eyes remained closed, his face was calm, his expression oddly content. "You're just... warm. Huh."

Loghain smiled and lowered his gaze to the map. In the small bright patch of clear land he put a star to mark their camp and, while Alistair's eyes were still closed, jotted down a quick name for the place.

Alistair's Clearing. A bright spot, untainted and clean: a paradox, a rare find in in the midst of Blighted lands.

Much like Alistair himself, with that sunny smile of his.

* * *

"Um, I just wanted to say... Thanks." Alistair murmured after Loghain put away the maps.

"What for?" _It must've been the history lesson, but..._ Loghain lifted his head and stared at Alistair, who was the very picture of awkwardness. "You're blushing!" Loghain declared with disbelief. "Do you ever stop? Why in Thedas are you blushing now?"

Alistair's lips twitched in a smile as he pointed at the map case. "You named something after me. That's kind of... sweet."

_And here I thought he wouldn't look too close. _"Oh yes, I get that all the time..." Loghain eyerolled and declared tartly, "...I may not be hot enough for a darkspawn, but at least I'm 'sweet'. Next thing you'll start chanting at my maps and getting all sorts of 'obsessive' ideas about them."

"What? No! This is 'intellectual appreciation'!" Alistair lifted his hand to scratch at the back of his head nervously. "Um. Definitely. I think I get what you see in them now, so, obviously I'm more appreciative. See?"

"Is that so?" Loghain lifted a skeptical eyebrow. "People don't usually turn _that_ shade of red out of 'intellectual appreciation'. Of anything."

"I'm not 'that shade of red'!" Alistair protested, touching his jaw. "Am I? Ugh."

"With reactions like that," Loghain drawled, "I wonder if you weren't accusing me of your own 'obsession'." The words were so tongue-in-cheek, it was a wonder he could speak at all.

"Well, since I'm supposed to be accusing and all, it _is_ your fault for making me blush in the first place."

"Since when have _**I**_ made you blush?" Loghain gave a slow smirk and held up his hands. "Why, I'm not even touching you."

Alistair blinked. "Why would you need to t... _oh._" Far from receding, the blush on Alistair's face bloomed like a double sunset.

"Did you even need to ask?" Loghain drawled, but his amusement faded as he peered narrowly at the lad. "...You did, didn't you?" he breathed, shocked and aghast all over again. _Just when I think I've worked out how naive he really is!_

"I..." Alistair bit his lip and stood still, silent, looking at Loghain: just looking, as if suddenly someone else had appeared in Loghain's place, and Alistair had to deal with the resulting confusion. He raised his eyes to meet Loghain's stare. "Do you want to?" he finally asked, quiet and shaky. "Touch me, I mean. Is this what it is all about? I... you keep saying these things - sometimes - and I can never be sure if you're teasing or joking or what..." Alistair ran his hand through his hair, fingers digging into his scalp, gesturing wildly with his other hand. "I... I shouldn't've brought this up. I'm... I shouldn't've. Forget it."

Loghain realised with another burst of startlement that he didn't have a clue what to say. It was a deeply unfamiliar state for someone who'd been outspoken all his life. With an uncharacteristic effort he gathered his scattered thoughts, met Alistair's questioning stare and answered his question with another question. "Do you want to be... touched?" Loghain didn't reach out with anything other than his gaze. He just stood there, waiting for Alistair's reaction, whatever it might be.

"I... um..." Alistair released a panicked breath. "I'm not, er, I don't know. I've never been - done - it. Done that. Before. I don't..." He drew a long, shaky breath, and laid his open hand on his heated face, covering his eyes. "Maker. I'm making a mess of this," he mumbled against his palm.

No other words came.

Loghain moved at last, closing the distance between them. He let his hand rest briefly on Alistair's shoulder, in a simple, brotherly pat. Something that would hopefully lift the impending panic from Alistair's expression. "Don't worry about it," Loghain murmured easily. "It's not something to get so worked up about. Believe it or not," he confided, deadpan, "some people even do it to relax." He stepped back and waved invitingly at Alistair's bedroll. "You know the routine by now; first watch is mine, so get some rest."

"Relax... riiight." Alistair muttered, but despite his dubious tone, he walked obediently over to his bedroll and let the dog settle beside him. Alistair shrugged out of his splintmail before wrapping himself in a blanket. The stare he gave Loghain was unsure and questioning, and its intensity didn't fade until Loghain turned away.

Loghain walked out of the campground, lest he be tempted to stay close, to watch over the sleeping man instead of their surroundings. He reached out with all of his senses into the night, past his confusion, past the presence of another Warden, reaching for any hints of darkspawn or twisted beasts roaming these blighted lands.

He took a deep lungful of the cool, damp air, and let it out in a slow sigh, and kept right on breathing. He had a long night watch ahead, and tomorrow was another day.

Tomorrow, they'd walk on through ever-more-Blighted lands, and barring disaster or death, tomorrow they would reach their goal: Ostagar, the abandoned killing-ground, the site of their first and greatest defeat, the heart of the Blight itself.

But tonight, they were still relatively safe, in the last, brightest, calmest patch of land in all the Wilds.

Alistair's Clearing.

Loghain held onto that thought, that name, and found refuge in it.


	8. Flames

**CHAPTER 8: Flames**

In the morning, the road began to climb, and by midday they were leaving the swampy lowlands behind and rising into steeper, rocky ground. For days the hills had been nothing but distant lines of grey and white, barely glimpsed beyond the Korcari Wilds' mist. Now, their granite sides shone stark as drawn swords, seeming much closer at hand in the clearer light. The fog had felt stifling while they were in it, but now there was an equally oppressive sense of visibility, vulnerability in the sudden sun, made all the more pitiless by the reflected glare from the snowfields ahead. As Loghain led his horse up the rising slope in Dog's and Alistair's wake, the jagged hills loomed ever nearer, ominous as an approaching storm. In the saw-toothed line of that natural wall against weather and invaders there was only one breach, and the Tevinters had sealed it centuries ago, with stone and the blood of their slaves.

Ostagar.

They topped the last rise in the road, and stole silently into the shadow of Ostagar's outer walls. Loghain tethered the horse in the shelter of the trees and scrubby grass that clung like a scum of dark green moss to the hem of the fortress' looming stone walls. Working in grim silence, Loghain and Alistair raided the saddlebags for health poultices and injury kits. They left all their other loot behind with the horse, silently aware that neither of them would need anything else, that either or both of them might never leave Ostagar alive.

They left the shelter of the trees and approached the sole gap in the the fortress' walls. The void where the destroyed doors once stood, gaped as blatant as a lost tooth. The huge slabs of wood were flung down in broken logs, and as Loghain and Alistair picked their way over the shattered timbers, they saw the vast courtyard within: a panorama of snow-covered earth. The snow might have seemed pristine and pure, if not for the all-too-obvious fact that the multitude of lumps the snow blanketed were nothing so innocent as rocks. Here and there, the wind had bared an armored limb, or freeze-dried flesh as gray as any metal.

"Maker!" Alistair whispered, flinching, but he was staring not at the bodies, but at one of the ruined buildings in the distance.

Loghain didn't have to ask what was wrong. Not when he could feel the acidic ache rising in his blood, sickening as bile burning in his throat. He unslung Maric's shield from his back, settled it on his arm. The dragon-fang sword hissed as he drew it.

"Er, not to rush in or anything," Alistair whispered as he drew his own blade, readied the Grey Warden shield, "but we should probably decide on some sort of strategy, like, you take the left, and I'll take the right..."

Loghain wasn't listening. His whole attention was turned inward, focusing on the taint, feeling the blaze in his blood resolving as he concentrated, sharpening into a swarm of individual spikes of pain behind his eyes, vicious as droplets of flung acid. Too many, if they all attacked at the same time. The icy wind forced his absently-staring eyes to blink, and his attention was wrenched back to the world beyond his body. He blinked again, focusing on the snow-dusted hulk of the closest building. Now he didn't even need to concentrate to feel the rising swarm of darkspawn behind the stone facade, boiling up through the cellars toward them. The building's roof was gone, but the rest was in better shape than most: with thick stone walls, no ground-level windows, and _only one door_. The military strategist in him had time for only one barked order, "RUN!" even as he sprinted for the door with all the speed of utter desperation.

That doorway was their only hope. A chokepoint. If they could get there first, stand shoulder to shoulder, block the darkspawn from getting out and surrounding them, then the darkspawn could only attack them a few at a time. They'd have to outlast the darkspawn, but at least they wouldn't be overwhelmed from every direction at once.

"And... Hey, wait!" Alistair cried out, following not far behind him. "Well, fine!"

As Loghain pelted up the rise toward the doorway, his teeth were bared in a savage, mute snarl; his blood pounded with the fever of battle and Blight. He made better time than he'd feared: rage and adrenaline and taint made the dragonscale feel almost as light on his body as his leathers, far lighter than the Chevalier plate.

He slid to a halt by the doorway, hearing the scrabbling of the leading darkspawn in the shadows within. The war cry that burst from him was magnified by the bare stone of the room, and the darkspawn's snarls were cut off as the leaders collapsed, thrown backward by the sheer power of that shout.

The reprieve lasted just long enough for Alistair to bound up and stand by his side in the doorway, panting with exertion or eagerness, both of their blades poised and ready for blood. At their feet, the mabari crouched for the leap.

Then the darkspawn were upon them.

Somewhere in the depths of Loghain's being, the cold, strategic mind that could dispassionately plan a slaughter, a war, floated high above the carnage. With quicksilver precision, that part of him picked out eyeblink weaknesses in stance, attack, defence. With vicious skill, the red haze of ferocity that was the rest of him, mercilessly used those tiny moments of weakness to kill, and kill, and kill again.

It was interminable. It was brutal. It was glorious.

It was who he was, what he lived for, ever since he'd drunk his death. He was fury made flesh: he took all the agony and torment of his beloved, Blighted Ferelden, and turned it back on his homeland's tormentors, in retribution swift and savagely sweet.

They piled that doorway high with darkspawn corpses, then cut down the others that tried to drag the bodies out of the way. Occasionally the darkspawn would try to charge, but fortunately the anteroom beyond was small and didn't allow much room to build up speed. When the darkspawn rushed or tried to gang up on one of them, it was up to the other to cover for him as he stood his ground. And as the battle went on and on, both men felt a strange closeness building between them within the taint. Loghain soon found he knew where and when Alistair was going to strike, before the blow even landed. He found himself covering for surprise moves, even as Alistair made them. And in turn, Alistair's shield or sword was flung between him and darkspawn blades more and more often. This feeling of companionship, unity grew closer and closer as the fight wore on, and the rising sense of their fierce, mutual protectiveness was heady, powerful enough to energise them, stave off the growing weariness of this marathon combat.

Loghain couldn't have said how long their stand in the doorway lasted, but when the last few darkspawn broke and fled screaming into the empty rooms, he leapt after them like a panther, hungry as any predator for more carnage. He cut down the stragglers, and laughed as they cowered, dying.

The last darkspawn gurgled and collapsed, then finally, silence fell. In the darkened room, the only sound was the fading drip of blood black with taint, and the raw gasps of Loghain's breathing, and Alistair's.

It was over. They'd won.

They turned to each other, moving with a strange, fluid synchrony. Swords slid back into sheaths, shields were slung easily over shoulders, and then they collided like charging bulls, chest to chest, arms flung around each other in an instinctive embrace fierce enough to crack un-armored ribs.

Loghain's inner strategist noted with distant surprise that Alistair and he were exactly of a height, that the boy's shoulders were just as broad as his own, his arms as strong. But most of him was dizzy with exultation and sudden exhaustion, his whole body shaking with full-throated laughter. Alistair was laughing too, great whoops of pure joy. Alistair's breath curled hotly against his ear, stirring his hair, as he cried, "We won!"

Loghain dropped his face into the sweat-shining curve of muscle at Alistair's throat, still gasping laughter. His lips brushed salt-wet skin, and instinct opened his mouth wider, sent his tongue sliding along hard sinew, tasting the sweat of battle. He drew a shuddering lungful of the thick, carnal scent and tightened his embrace, shifting his stance to press their bodies closer together. He slid one leg between Alistair's, and answering heat and hardness pushed against his thigh, and Loghain knew it wasn't armor. It was all Alistair; and feeling his response, so unmistakably real, made Loghain hiss in triumph. _Fuck, he wants this! He wants me!_ Loghain arched his back, grinding his throbbing erection against Alistair's solid, sinewy form.

_Yes._

Loghain's arms clutched at a body strong and hot and alive; his lungs were filled with the scent of heated flesh. His mouth luxuriated in the taste of a naked throat that needed the protection of a metal collar, but not now, not yet. Now, Loghain simply basked in the moment, in the suede-soft brush of skin pulsing under his lips, in the heady taste of warrior's sweat and darkspawn blood and shared lust. After all those long, cold years, at last, at _last_ he was warm: right down to the beat of tainted blood in his cock.

* * *

"Hey wait!" Alistair cried out as Loghain rushed ahead with the singlemindedness of a charging bronto. "Well, fine!" He drew his sword and ran after Loghain, right into the thick of the battle. His blood throbbed hot, stirred by the taint's proximity, and he clutched his sword tight and swung again and again at the seething chaos of darkspawn that struggled and screamed in the doorway, savage with bloodlust._ Maker! Gotta kill 'em before they kill us._

In the rush of the battle and the slippery pools of tainted blood, he stood his ground, side by side with his fellow warden. Alistair sliced and thrust his blade into one hurlock after the other, with no end in sight. _I asked for this. __**I**__ wanted to come here, I'm the one who talked __**him **__into coming here, _the thought beat in his mind, apprehension and guilt as hot and furious as the taint. _We'd never be here, if it wasn't for me. Now, I've got to see it through. For Duncan._

_**Duncan!**_

All the desperation and despair of Duncan's death, the anger and agony of loss, hit Alistair anew, filling his body with all the power of bereaved wrath. He hacked and stabbed and chopped until there were no more monsters left to kill.

He stood there, panting, in a bloody mess of a room with Loghain at his side, tainted blood dripping from his blade like tar, and he could think of only one thing. _It's over. _There were no more monsters.

They were all dead.

And then Loghain turned to him and Alistair moved as well, and they seized each other and it was so unexpected, but somehow not surprising at all. He needed this. Precisely this. The support of a comrade-in-arms, waking him from his mindless drive to kill, and keeping him steadied and breathing and alive.

_Maker! We're alive!_

Loghain pulled him into a strong embrace and he found himself croaking something victorious and elated, and Loghain's breath brushed his bare neck, and Loghain's blood-damp braid slid against Alistair's skin, and they stood there, body to body, wrapped in each other's arms. At last, Alistair realised, through all the mad, unstoppable laughter that spilled from his lips, that the rush in his blood was taint no longer. Just heat.

It couldn't have felt less like the darkspawn's toxic burn: this clean, steady warmth.

_So good. Yes! _It felt so glorious, so right, to keep holding on, to clutch even tighter, to throw back his head in pure abandon and offer up his throat to the wet warmth of breath, then lips, then a tongue slowly stroking his skin. _Ohh yes, this. _A shiver traced Alistair's spine at the rasp of heated breathing right below his ear, and a moan caught in his chest at the tingling scrape of stubble, the softness of lips, on his suddenly-sensitive jaw. The surge of hardness sliding against his own length stoked the heat between them higher, higher. Alistair didn't think, didn't speak, just surrendered to the explosion of new sensations that overwhelmed him all at once: more intense, more seductive than the lust of battle or the rush of victory.

_More! Yes!_

Until the dog's tentative bark awoke him from dreamlike drowning in sensation, and with belated shock Alistair forced his grinding hips into stillness, and pulled back, frantic, wide eyed, holding Loghain at arms' length.

"More!" he choked out, and then gasped, stunned by the answering flare of intensity in Loghain's gaze and... _Maker, what did we just... Oh no! It's all my fault, I've - Quick. How do I fix it?_

"More darkspawn," Alistair muttered, as his face burned with sudden mortification. "Out, outside," he stammered. Because there _had_ to be more darkspawn, somewhere out there, and Alistair had to go, right _now_, and face every last one of them! Before Loghain looked at him again like... like a starving man offered his favourite meal on a silver platter, and _definitely _before Loghain tried asking about what Alistair had just done, and _why_.

* * *

When Alistair's hands slid up to Loghain's shoulders and pushed him back, Loghain frowned, surfacing with difficulty from the heady rush of victory, of closeness, of touch. Alistair's eyes were so wide, so dark, pupils blown with arousal, lips parted, panting. Blood burned in his face, and when he gasped "More!", Loghain reached for him again, wanting only to sink to the floor with him right then and there, and show him exactly what he'd been missing all his life.

But then Alistair continued to babble, half-incoherent, and the realisation broke through the fog of arousal burning in Loghain's brain. Those dark eyes were wide with panic, not arousal; that wasn't a flush of need but a blush of shame.

With a wrench, he tore armored shoulders free of Alistair's grasp and turned away, closing his eyes, blocking out the sight of the panicked boy. He seized his concentration with grim resolve, and forced it away from Alistair and into the taint. There were faint hints of darkspawn, but they were so distant they were barely an itch in Loghain's blood. Distant enough that a mere two Wardens - whose taint was, after all, mild compared to any darkspawn - should pass unnoticed.

Obviously, it was nothing more than an excuse, a way for Alistair to rid himself of Loghain's attentions: evidently unwanted, despite the boy's initial, ardent response. _Apparently I'm so 'senile' I forgot how hormones can override the will._

Loghain bit back the first bitter reply that occurred to him, and the tenth, and the twentieth, settling at last for a grumbled, "Unless you're so desperate for another fight that you go haring off after them, we should be fine. Sit down and catch your breath, for Maker's sake," he added disgustedly, keeping his back turned.

The pause was punctuated only by a series of frantic, gasping breaths, and then the metallic click of Alistair's splintmail as he moved, and fainter, the riffling sound of that infernal bristle of hair. Apparently the boy was scratching the back of his head. No doubt he was a nervous wreck. Again. Still. Loghain kept his back straight, his shoulders squared, and pointedly did not look.

"I... I'm sorry," an uncertain voice stammered out, so quiet, so soft, after the prolonged torture of an awkward silence.. "I shouldn't've done... t-that."

"Shouldn't have done what?" Loghain snapped, "Exaggerated the danger? You're right, you shouldn't have! You've been tainted even longer than I have. I don't believe you're that much poorer than I am, at judging how close darkspawn are." He turned at last, fixing Alistair with a grimly assessing stare. "And if you meant you shouldn't have _rejoiced _at a victory against such odds, well, I don't believe you're above feeling simple human relief at survival either, no matter what your precious Chantry says." _As for anything else he was feeling, I'm damned if I'm going to bring that up, since obviously it's all too bloody traumatic for him,_ Loghain snarled inwardly.

"Says what?" Alistair frowned, petulant as a scolded child. "And what's the Chantry got to do with anything?"

"Aren't they the ones who expect _purity?_" Loghain spat the word.

"What? No they don't! And even if they do, they shouldn't expect it from me. I am not their lyrium slave! And - and it's not like anyone really listens to the whole thing about purity every second of the day. Sometimes, occasionally, accidents happen. And they're forgiven. Even in the Chantry."

"Well I'm _so_ glad to know you'll be forgiven for your little indiscretion just now." There were limits to Loghain's patience. Petty though it was, the sniping relieved a little of the disappointment he felt, at the knowledge that fighting the darkspawn was preferable to having anything to do with him.

"Look, NO! It's not about the Chantry! At all. It's... us. Here." Alistair paced, running his hands over his burning face nervously, smearing the leftover darkspawn blood. "It's... I'm a Warden, and you're a Warden, and you're my commander, and ARGH!" He threw his hands up in the air, and then paused, caught into stillness, staring at Loghain, as if seeing him for the first time. "You're a Grey Warden and my Commander," he repeated softly, uncertainly, brow furrowed as he puzzled out something important: about Grey Warden duties, and Commanders like Duncan, and wasted time. "And I - this - it will change things. A lot."

As Alistair continued speaking, he grew calmer; and as he calmed, even Loghain had to admit that he began making more sense. "It would change things," Loghain conceded grimly, "_if_ it had continued. But you'll find," he sighed, letting the boy off the hook, "that _moments _of celebration are just that." He turned away, strode for the door. "Come on," he said without turning his head, "let's find somewhere less crowded," he stepped over darkspawn corpses in the next room, making for the exit, "to search for these artifacts of yours."

_"Oh,"_ Alistair breathed; it was low and rough, a pained grunt, as though he'd taken a hit to the gut. Loghain was about to ask about stray injuries, but Alistair followed him swiftly enough. "Let's go then," he said, brisk and determined. "Before they wander close enough to sense us."

* * *

The day was turning out to be a complete mess. As they emerged from the darkness of the ruined building, Alistair squinted at the sudden glare of the snow. His shoulders hunched against the bitter wind as he followed Loghain toward the bridge, toward the slowly rising sense of darkspawn: still distant, but growing nearer with every step.

Bodies littered the bridge so thickly they had to choose their footing with care, or risk treading on them. Alistair murmured a Chant for the fallen as he passed one sprawled, shrivelled corpse after another. His low voice was the only sound, apart from their footfalls and the thin, icy whistle of the wind. It felt as though they were the only living things for hundreds of miles, as they picked their way slowly along the strip of stone stretching across the narrow pass of the hills to connect the two sides of Ostagar.

It was all so different from the last time Alistair had been here. He and Solona had sprinted across at Duncan's urging, and all these corpses had still been alive: had been people, warriors defending their homeland from the Blight.

Loghain strode swift and efficient along the bridge, tight-lipped as Wynne when she disapproved of something Alistair had done. The expression carved into Loghain's gaunt face - a look as harsh and cold as Ostagar's stone and snow - tightened the uneasy knot somewhere under Alistair's breastbone.

The activity in the taint built slowly: not intense enough to burn or betray their presence, not yet, but the distant itch was irritating, like a splinter under his skin. Though Alistair forgot about the taint, as they drew nearer to the centre of the bridge. The darkspawn had added something new: a tall tripod topped by a weird, jagged crescent. From a distance it seemed like nothing more than another of the strange, aimless collections of spears and skulls they left wherever they went: traces of their presence as ugly as the black rot of the taint.

As they closed the distance, Alistair realised this wasn't one of their ordinary trophies. It was much, much worse.

It was Cailan.

* * *

Cailan.

Loghain was shocked at the way his throat closed over, at the sudden thud of his heart, hard as the blow of a club. He was sickened by this brutal end to all those desperate years of striving to give Maric and Rowan's son a sense of purpose, duty, discipline. But what chance had Loghain had in his long, solitary struggle to moderate all the other influences in Cailan's life? He certainly couldn't overrule the King and Queen, who had doted on their golden heir. On his own, he couldn't overcome the effects of everyone else in Cailan's life, not when the whole country was determined to spoil their handsome Prince, and pander to every rash impulse of their young King.

Cailan wasn't so kingly, now.

His body had been stripped naked and impaled by many spears, pinned to the gibbet like a butterfly collector's prize specimen. Unlike all the other corpses at Ostagar, whose flesh had been withered to rags of leather by months of dry, freezing air, Cailan's body was unnaturally whole: apparently undamaged, instantly recognisable. Without the blood - still oddly red - that spattered his ivory skin, without those horrible spears, he might have seemed merely asleep. His expression was as peaceful as Alistair's as he curled up nightly with the mabari.

Loghain looked up into Cailan's face, so strangely unchanged from the last time he'd seen him, and now that he knew Alistair so much better than he'd ever known him before, he was struck forcibly by how very much Cailan had looked like Alistair; how little of Rowan had survived in Cailan's features, and how strongly both of Maric's sons resembled their father.

Now Rowan's legacy was gone from the world, dead with her only child, and Maric's lived on only in Cailan's half-brother. Loghain tore his gaze away from that pale, still face, and glanced aside at another, just as spattered with blood, just as pale. Almost as still.

He had to swallow before he could speak. But what was there to say?

_I told you not to go!_

_Why did you always listen to Duncan, and never to me?_

_I had to withdraw! I had no choice!_

_I never wanted this!_

But the only thing that made it out of the tangle of his thoughts and into speech, was a bitter whisper, "What a _waste!_"

Alistair turned to him and stared, his expression livid with anguish, his voice as raw as the bitter winter air. "Help me get him down." He stepped up to the gibbet and reached to pull the first spear from Cailan's body.

Loghain hissed fiercely, "Yes!" There was no way he was letting the fucking darkspawn go on making a trophy of Ferelden's King, no matter how much of a piss-poor King he'd been. Loghain just hoped Alistair would do a better job; but then, he could hardly do much worse.

He reached up and touched the body, and though it was cold, the texture was still just like living flesh. His own flesh crawled. "Preservation magic?" he muttered uneasily, "I've never seen anything like it."

But they didn't have long to wait for an explanation. The taint churned abruptly within them, an aching wrench like a clawed fist twisting their vitals. They whirled to face the far end of the bridge, where a single, distant figure stood. It was too short to be anything other than a genlock, but the squat figure still radiated all the malice of an emissary. The twisting ache came from a whirling sphere of magic that hung in midair before the creature. The darkspawn waved clawed hands in arcane gestures, stoking the hovering gyre of power higher and higher. The maelstrom of unnatural forces blazed even more fiercely, flinging vicious arcs of lightning. And then, without warning, it exploded. Loghain and Alistair braced themselves, expecting to be flung off their feet by a punishing physical impact, but for a moment it seemed as though nothing had happened.

Then there was a stirring before and behind them, all along the bridge. Shells of old, gray ice cracked and fell away, shattering like glass on the stone, as darkspawn corpses clambered to their feet, raised rusted weapons, and attacked. Even skeletons raced toward them, reconstructed and strengthened by the deadly force of that spell. The genlock necromancer leered at them, then turned its back and walked away: a clear gesture of contempt, leaving the chore of killing them to its puppets.

The one mercy was the fact that only darkspawn corpses had been resurrected. The fallen soldiers stayed still, and - thank the Maker! - so did Cailan.

There was no chance of cover here, no hope of a chokepoint. All they could do was put their backs to each other, and stay close, and _fight_.

"C'mon," Loghain rumbled to Alistair, giving him a savage smile as he drew his sword. His whole expression was vividly alight with feral anticipation as he faced the undead monsters. "These miserable shits are already dead. Let's just _remind_ 'em!"

Alistair responded to Loghain's words with a vigorous dash and a parry, as he sliced clean through a walking corpse's ribcage. His warden shield got plenty of use as he faced, fearless, the full brunt of the small horde.

"For Ferelden!" Loghain roared the familiar war cry that flung back the attackers on his side, sending some toppling over the parapet; at the same instant, behind him, Alistair unleashed a bolt of holy fire that set more corpses ablaze like torches. Loghain felt the reassuring support of Alistair's tense, muscled back against his own, as safe as a second shield. And they dove into battle once more.

It was a blur of lightning-fast strikes: the two wardens moving like halves of a whole, their attacks in perfect synchrony, their footfalls ringing together against the stone, blades whirling and slicing together. Spin, stab, parry, turn: Loghain would lift his shield and feel no surprise when Alistair ducked beneath it to skewer a darkspawn, even as Loghain hacked apart another on Alistair's blindside. Against the raving, destroying bushfire of darkspawn taint that surrounded them, the Wardens' shared taint was as slight as their carefully banked campfire, but it glowed just as steady, holding back the night. Through the shifts and currents in that shared warmth, Loghain knew what Alistair did behind his back without looking, knew exactly when Alistair's sword or shield were covering for him, knew when to cover for Alistair in turn. Their unity anchored them; together they were the cool, collected eye of a whirling, screaming hurricane of combat: two minds thinking as one, two bodies moving, reacting, feeling, striking as one.

Then at last the circle of clawing, shambling attackers was thinning, until only the razor-bright web of the Wardens' swordplay was left. The last corpses menacing them from close quarters fell beneath their blades, leaving only two knots of skeletal archers, clustered at both ends of the bridge.

The mabari hound, who'd crouched at their feet throughout the pitched battle, finally had room to lunge freely; he remained behind to finish off the twice-dying corpses, snapping his jaws at their necks and mauling their faces one after the other. Alistair turned away to face the end of the bridge nearer to him, and Loghain turned like his shadow, dark in his Archdemon plate, facing the other end. At once they took off, breaking their close battle stance, sprinting away from each other toward the far ends of the bridge, rushing to engage the archers.

Loghain raised Maric's shield as he ran, ducking arrows that to his expert eye were clumsily loosed. As he drew nearer, he even batted them away contemptuously with his sword. Compared to the pitched battle in the middle of the bridge, the archers were easy prey. He cut down the last animated corpse, and took a second to catch his breath. Steam streamed away from him in the freezing air, as he stared down the length of the bridge to the distant figure gleaming in the pitiless, snow-bright glare. Alistair's splintmail shone with the same copper-gold glint as his hair, turning him into a living statue of a soldier, as he ducked under this arrow and leapt over that. His sword was a silver blur in the air as he moved in a deadly dance, dropping darkspawn with every sweep of his blade, every swing of his shield. Loghain watched, rapt, revelling in the rare chance to feast his eyes on a truly spectacular display of swordsmanship. As Alistair pounced like a lion, beheading the last archer in one swift blow, Loghain took off at an exuberant run, obeying the urgent impulse of the moment, sprinting along the bridge toward his comrade.

Alistair sheathed his sword and ran toward him in turn, as if he felt the same exultant urge. Their pounding strides slowed and they came to a halt, facing each other, panting, in the middle of the bridge. Alistair's face was flushed with exertion and splashed with darkspawn blood, and yet his brown eyes were as bright as amber in the sun, afire with triumph and feral, raw honesty that shone like a beacon through the mask of shed darkspawn blood. In that moment, as Loghain's heart hammered in his throat and the joined plumes of their living breath coiled like dragonsmoke on the icy breeze, he realised what a splendid warrior Alistair really was.

The memory of panicked rejection helped Loghain fight down the impulse to close the last few inches, to seize that vivid vision of victory and possess him. He contented himself with a slow, ceremonial nod of acknowledgement, spiced by a sharp, feral grin. Alistair exhaled a foggy plume and his answering smile, quirky and lopsided and tentative as it was, still lit up his face. The dog capered like a giddy pup around them both, barking madly.

Loghain cast his awareness out into the taint, searching. But after their victory on the bridge, barely the faintest itch of darkspawn remained to be sensed. That necromancer or whatever it was had apparently had the sense to leave the area when its puppets had been hacked to bits. If they found its trail, they'd hunt it down later. But for now, they were alone. More or less.

As one man, they turned to face the gibbet where the corpse of Alistair's half-brother still hung impaled, like a target for spear practice.

Cailan Theirin, last king of Ferelden.

* * *

Loghain broke off the last rusted spear, and Alistair caught his half-brother's body as it fell free. He stumbled under the limp, cold weight as he lowered Cailan down to lie on the stone in the middle of the bridge.

"Maker," Alistair whispered, toneless, breathless, "Gotta cover him. Can't leave him like this. And... gotta find wood, for the fire... "

As Alistair mumbled, frantic and shocked, Loghain had other worries on his mind. Sombre, he took out his dagger and, after feeling his way across the woven strands of long blond hair, hacked swiftly at Cailan's left braid.

"Hey! Stop that!" Alistair cried out, too late to stop Loghain. "Have some respect!" he added, sounding every bit the outraged Templar he never really became.

At Alistair's cry of protest, Loghain's head jolted up; he fixed Alistair with a stare, grumbling, "You act as though you never met Solona." As he spoke, Loghain's deft fingers unraveled the weather-knotted braid and pushed the miniature brass key out of Cailan's cut hair. Keeping keys, lockpicks, wire garrotes, poison phials, and other small, important items hidden inside braids was a trick he'd shown Cailan long ago. It was one advantage long hair clearly had over that stubble Alistair called presentable.

"What?" Alistair yelped, outrage sharp in his voice. "I was with her longer than you were!"

"Well, then. Did she ever see a corpse she didn't loot? Good practice. Solid, Fereldan pragmatism," Loghain declared approvingly, "Waste not, want not."

"That was different! She took their coin and weapons, not their _hair!_"

_Even Cailan doesn't care about his hair now. _Loghain smirked inwardly,_ ...Probably._ "Yes," he parried, "the same hair you want to burn." He held up the tiny brass key in a gesture of triumph, twirling it in his fingertips so that it caught the sunlight in gilded flashes, like visible promises of treasure. "...Look, do you want to get at those 'warden artifacts' you were going on about, or don't you? Believe me, Cailan would rather you had them, than leaving them here to rot."

Alistair scowled nonetheless, and reached not for the key but for the hacked strip of blond hair. "_Give_ me that!" he bit out, clipped and stern and commanding, and for once he didn't look his true age at all. In that moment, and for the first time since Loghain had met him, Alistair looked like a King: as grey and bleak and bitter as that preaching Circle hag who'd followed Solona. Moved by that strange transformation more than he'd ever admit, Loghain ceremonially offered the severed braid to Alistair, who took it from his hand and draped it along the curve of Cailan's bare shoulder, as carefully as if he was placing a rose on the dead man's breast. "We need to burn _all_ of him."

Loghain turned away from this display of sentimentality, silent, refusing to admit that the tightness of his throat made him distrust the usually reliable weapon of his voice. He ripped the Archdemon-fang sword from its sheath and brought down the gibbet that had held Cailan, with short, vicious, devastating chops of that razor-sharp blade. Mutely he carried one armful after another of the bone dry, splintery wood, piling it around Cailan's body. Raising a pyre.

Later, it was Alistair who tapped their flint with his blade, scattering sparks into the wood of Cailan's pyre. It was Alistair who sang the Chant over his half-brother's burning body. "Ashes we were, and ashes we become." The slow music of Alistair's voice carried over the whisper of the fire, as the pyre caught Cailan's golden tresses, kindling them to even brighter flame. "Maker, give my brother Cailan a place at your side. Let us find comfort in the peace he will find, in eternity."


	9. Two Swords

**CHAPTER 9: Two Swords**

As Cailan's pyre burned, Dog stood beside the blaze, threw back his head and howled: a long, low, mournful wail that echoed again and again from this ruin and that, until it sounded as though all of Ostagar was moaning its grief to the icy wind. The flames were too bright to look at, but Alistair looked anyway, covering his nose and mouth with his sleeve and peering at the pyre through the smoke and the streaming wetness in his eyes.

He simply stared, as if he'd lost all capacity for blinking. When he finally turned away to check on Loghain, he realised that he was alone. Alistair scrubbed at his eyes, and looked around, and finally spotted him just past the end of the bridge, on the side from which they'd entered Ostagar.

He left the burning pyre and walked toward Loghain. The man bent to examine a lump in the snow, and Alistair wondered what he'd found. _More fuel for the fire? A corpse he's recognised? _Alistair's heart dropped. _Duncan? _

Duncan was the whole reason Alistair had decided to come to Ostagar. But now that he was here, he was dreading the moment of actually finding Duncan's corpse. He realised belatedly that he didn't really want to see the dead body of his teacher, companion and commander, the man who'd singlehandedly saved him from the templars. He didn't want to see his personal hero defeated and broken, withered and made hideous by death and rot. It was with a weird blend of guilt and relief that Alistair realised that finding Duncan would be no easy task, not when he was just one more corpse among thousands. Alistair knew now that he needed more bravery than he'd thought, to finally face what he knew all along: that Duncan was dead and gone.

Solona's funeral was hard enough, but this was already twisting knots in his gut just thinking about it.

In a way, it was good to have another Warden here. Having Loghain meant that Alistair wasn't alone, in a bigger sense than just having another warrior to watch his back, or even someone he could talk to. Loghain helped. He was a reminder. He helped Alistair see that even among a field of corpses - honored and sent off to the Maker or not - Alistair himself was still alive, with breathing lungs and beating heart: not just another dry husk, no matter how wrung out and empty he felt.

It was difficult to remember that, when life threw too much death your way.

As he came closer, Alistair realised Loghain wasn't looting a corpse. Loghain had brushed a crust of snow away from what turned out to be a large, heavy iron chest. Now he was kneeling in front of the chest, peering at its decorative scrollwork, feeling along the metal curls, searching for a tiny, concealed keyhole.

Alistair was about to ask if he needed a hand when Loghain gave a triumphant "Ha!" and fitted the small brass key into an almost-invisible hole framed by a curlicue of iron. With a heave and a creak of rusty hinges, he hauled the chest open.

At first glance, the chest seemed nearly empty. But it was lit from within by the eerie blue glow of lyrium. Alistair blinked in surprise and craned to look. The light came from a longsword, lying diagonally, only barely fitting into the chest. Loghain gave a low, hoarse gasp, filled with pained urgency. _He almost sounds like he's been hit by an arrow._ Lit from beneath by the lyrium's gleam, Loghain's angular face was as pale as a ghost's, as he reached into the chest. Alistair's own heart gave a painful thud as he watched, _Maker, are his hands __**shaking**__?_

Loghain drew the sword from the chest. All the while, his gaze was fixed on the blade, his blue stare as fever-bright as the lyrium of the sword's many runes. He rose to his feet with absentminded grace, and the movement of his throat as he swallowed was plain in the sword's glow, before he husked, "Maric's blade. I'd know it anywhere."

_I keep forgetting I wasn't the only one with something to find here at Ostagar. _Alistair watched the way Loghain's fingers curled protectively around the hilt, and the way the sword's light brightened the blue of Loghain's eyes, and Alistair wondered, just for a bit, about the intensity of that stare. It was as if Loghain had found the most precious, the most coveted map of all Ferelden and its borders, past, present, and future, and was never letting it out of his sight again.

The parchment inside the chest lay forgotten, but it held no maps, just writing. Some sort of documents. Letters. Official, maybe important. Addressed to the King, but the parchment was fresh, not nearly old enough to be King Maric's correspondence.

Knowing full well that Loghain wasn't about to let go of that blade anytime soon, Alistair peered into the chest to look more closely at the letters. "Huh, what are these?"

He glanced at the first one. It was just something about the Orlesian empress and strategy, nothing interesting. So he peered at the second letter, and Eamon's name caught his eye.

**_Cailan, I beseech you as your uncle..._**

Alistair quickly scanned over the rest. Eamon had written about Anora.

**_The queen approaches her thirtieth year and her ability to give you a child lessens with each passing month... _**

**_it might be time to put Anora aside..._**

_Odd. At least that's reassuring, in a way. I guess Anora isn't much for demanding that her royal consort fulfills his marital duty and helps extend the Mac Tir line. Even Eamon says so. _

_Well I suppose that's one less worry, if it comes down to it._

He would've carried on reading, but he was interrupted by Loghain's hand on his shoulder. As he glanced up, Loghain set down the sword, and his other hand reached for Eamon's letter. Loghain's stare, sharp and vivid as Maric's blade, flicked across the lines of writing, and his expression hardened. When he finished that letter, his fist tightened ominously, the crinkle of the parchment loud in the snow-clad silence, and he sank back to his knees by the chest, nudging Alistair absently aside as he scooped up the other parchments littering the bottom of the chest, and began reading with feverish speed. As he did so, his mouth slowly twisted into a mute snarl, and his pulse started to beat visibly in his temple.

But he mostly managed to contain himself until he'd read the last letter. Only then did he explode. Parchments clutched in fists that shook with rage, he roared with all the power of a war cry, "THAT CHEATING BASTARD!"

_Bastard? Who? Me? _Alistair winced and flinched away from the worst of that roar's impact, blinking. _Oh. Not me. Whew!_ "What? Who?"

"My son-in-law!" Loghain hissed. "That skirt-chasing prick!"

"Cailan? He wouldn't..."

"Can't you read?" Loghain thrust a fistful of letters at Alistair in a gesture as forceful as a punch that didn't quite land. "That Orlesian whore! She called him Cailan. Cailan! No one but my daughter - his wife! - and close family had that right!"

"Who, er, Celene? Where'd she say that?" Alistair read the letter Loghain thrust at him, and his face fell a bit as he scanned the damning phrase. "Um, I suppose it's a custom or a sign of good will or something," he mumbled, unsure. "Anyway," he continued in much firmer tones, "everyone knows that Cailan and Anora were King and Queen and they loved each other. It's as simple as that." He smoothed out the wrinkled parchment. "It's just one note. You're seeing things."

"Are you blind?" Loghain cried, his eyes narrow and his fingers crushing the parchment as if it was a throat he was strangling. "Their plot's as plain as day! Love or no, Cailan was going to cast my daughter aside and wed himself to that bitch Celene!"

By Loghain's side, the mabari growled.

"...Snake," Loghain amended in a brief aside to the dog, "Better?" When the hound sighed and sat down, placing his head on Loghain's knee in mute commiseration, Loghain turned back to Alistair and continued, his voice lower but no less furious. "In a single vow, Orlais would claim all that they could never win by war! And what would Ferelden gain? Our fool of a King could strut about and call himself an Emperor!"

Alistair thought back to the prized maps in Loghain's leather case, at the care Loghain took to collect every mark of Ferelden's freedom. _I can see where he'd think that, _he admitted to himself. _It even makes some sort of sense, in a way. _He sighed. "Eamon would say that a move like that would bring peace," he murmured.

"Eamon would say anything that would give him more power!" Loghain snapped. "He always hated Anora and me, because he could never influence us. No doubt he thought that, by encouraging Cailan's betrayal of Ferelden, he'd win favour in Orlais. Probably that Orlesian shrew of a wife of his put him up to it."

Alistair huffed. "Isolde is not a shrew," he protested. But that was as fair as he could be, defending the honor of a woman that once, as a boy, he'd wished all the Maker's wrath on.

"No, I suppose on second thought, she isn't," Loghain conceded with a shrug. "Shrews are courageous fighters." He slitted his eyes slyly, and added with a smirk, "She's a conniving little parasite."

Alistair bit his lip. He had to, in order to keep from spilling a few choice words himself, out of belated childhood anger. "She's just a person. She thought I was Eamon's bastard once, and she wanted me gone," he finally said, clipped and dry. "But after everything, after Solona and I came back to Redcliffe and defended it, I think she finally accepted that I was more than anyone's bastard. I hope she did." He tilted his head. "Perhaps saving Connor helped." He smiled briefly. "I really owe Solona for that, you know. She went across Lake Calenhad and back, all the way to her Circle Tower, and brought back a whole team of mages to save him."

Loghain's eyebrows lifted. "And I hear she killed a High Dragon and a village full of cultists to bring back Andraste's ashes to cure Eamon: of a poison that was never going to do more than incapacitate the man. She didn't always choose the best targets for her saviour impulses." Loghain gave Alistair a sly look, as his mouth twisted wryly, "No doubt you'd agree with that assessment of her behaviour, given your reaction to her display of mercy at the Landsmeet."

Alistair sighed and his mouth twitched in a fond smile. _Oh, Solona, trust you to go your own way and save the grumpy sod, even when I wanted him dead. _But the bitterness of that day at the Landsmeet wasn't in Alistair anymore, and he refused to be baited about the past, not even by Loghain. "She always wanted to save everyone, no matter the cost. She wanted peace."

Loghain shook his head and half turned away, in the manner of someone abandoning a point he would've liked to pursue. Instead, he grumbled, "Peace? Peace just means fighting someone else's enemies in someone else's war for someone else's reasons."

"Sometimes I wonder if I'd know what to do with peace." Alistair looked away from Loghain and the dog by his side, gazing first at the snow covered peaks, then at the sharp ruins of the fortress' jagged towers. Finally he turned back, to face Loghain's sky-bright stare. "But I don't think either of us will ever find out, one way or the other." He stuck his blade in the snow, trying to scrape the worst of the tainted corpse dust off the metal. "There's still plenty of darkspawn to fight in Ferelden."

Loghain bowed his head. The long, black hair fell forward, rippling in the breeze, curtaining his face. "Yes," he whispered, and his voice was as bleak as the icy wind. "Probably thirty years' worth. Enough to last a lifetime, for both of us."

"Yeah. Thirty years, give or take. I always thought that was an awfully long time, like forever, so why worry?" Alistair shrugged. "I could be killed tomorrow."

"Not if _**I**_ have anything to say about it," Loghain growled, and when Alistair turned to face him, his stare was as hard and cold and serious as the corpse-strewn icefield around them.

* * *

As Alistair tended to the pyre, Loghain and Dog covered the rest of the ground on the near side of the pass. They stayed along the wall, surveying the perimeter. As he followed Dog, who went sniffing to a quiet back corner and up a ramp, Loghain recognized this out-of-the-way part of the ruins as a place Duncan had kept everyone away from, except his recruits. Now Loghain scanned it with a fresh eye, noting the isolation, the restricted access, the circular dais looking out onto a stunning panorama of snow-covered hills. He realised that this impressive, secluded meeting place would have been the best spot in the entire camp for a Joining ceremony. Sure enough, when he looked around in the thick snowdrifts near the dais, he spotted a half-buried glint of silver.

He bent down and picked the thing up, shaking the snow off. A silver chalice, large, multi-sided, plain. The inner surface of its bowl was still stained black by the liquid corruption it had held. It looked very much like the chalice Riordan had handed to him, the one he'd drunk from that fated day he'd accepted a delayed death sentence instead of an immediate one.

Mutely he returned to the bridge, to the dying pyre, to the glowing ashes of Maric and Rowan's son, to the silent man sitting huddled beside the embers. "You said you wanted to come here to find Warden artifacts," Loghain murmured as he held out the chalice. "Perhaps this one will be worth the journey."

Alistair looked up, first at Loghain, then at what he held. Their fingers met, brushed over each other, lingered just a bit, as Alistair took the chalice. For a long while, Alistair sat there silent, turning the chalice slowly in his hands. His head was bent, his gaze distant: seemingly absorbed in studying the smooth silver contours, far more likely absorbed in the past.

When at last Alistair looked up from the chalice, he eyed Loghain with curiosity, and perhaps some concern. "You look tired."

"Hush," Loghain shook his head, brushing it off as nothing important, "It's been a long day."

"Yeah," Alistair nodded. "It has."

"Are we done here?"

Alistair didn't answer. Instead, he walked to the edge of the bridge, and looked down over the stone parapet.

Loghain muttered dryly to himself, "Should've known better than to ask." He walked over to stand by Alistair's side at the bridge's edge. Together they gazed down the dizzying drop into the pass, so far below them it was already lost in shadow. A freezing wind blew up from the depths, lifting Loghain's black mane in midair, the strands coiling and twisting with an uneasy, serpentine movement. Even the heavier braids swayed in the updraft, slow as seaweed in the ocean. "Do you really want to go down there?" he murmured, barely louder than the thin shriek of the wind. "That's where they'll be, if they're anywhere. Hiding. Waiting."

Alistair met Loghain's stare and nodded mutely.

Loghain bowed his head, as if leaning into the icy updraft for strength. "Then we'll go." He bit back a question or two, watching Alistair's searching gaze trained on the shadowed pass, but then, finally, he spoke. "You've seen some of the bodies," he reminded Alistair grimly, "you know they're often unrecognisable. You may never identify him for certain, even if you find and examine every last corpse."

Alistair's throat bobbed, before he husked, "I was his squire. I can recognize his armor by touch, even in the dark." There was determination behind his words, for all the hoarseness of his voice. "I have to try this, for him."

_Just as I thought. This whole journey was always about Duncan. Why the hell Alistair never slept with the man, I'll never know. Poor sod, it's too late now. Does Alistair suppose he'll prove his devotion to Duncan's ghost by burning his body and building a shrine to his ashes, as if he was Andraste herself?_ Loghain sighed inwardly, forcing down his jealous irritation. He liked to think that pettiness was beneath him, and usually it was.

So instead, Loghain shared his privileged knowledge, as befitting a comrade-in-arms. "Duncan was in the vanguard," he muttered. "His body should be down there in the pass. If the darkspawn didn't carry it off elsewhere and make another trophy."

Alistair cringed at the last words. His gaze strayed to the ashes of his half-brother, already flying in the wind, sparkling like fireflies in the lowering afternoon light. In only a few days, the last traces of Cailan would be gone. "I hope they didn't," he simply said. "If Duncan's there, I'll find him." His fist was hard, tightening over the hilt of his sword. "I _need_ to find him. He deserves nothing less."

Loghain's hand, dark in a gauntlet of Archdemon scales, settled on Alistair's shoulder in a companionable gesture. When Alistair took a step closer it slid naturally to rest on the pale curve of Alistair's nape where it emerged from the collar of his splintmail. The muscle was warm through the dragonwing of the gauntlet's palm, as Loghain kneaded in a careful, undemanding touch, a mute attempt to offer what little consolation he could. "Then we'll find him," Loghain murmured quietly, "if he's there to be found."

Alistair's sharp intake of breath at Loghain's touch was his only initial reaction. It sounded like unease, but the muscles underneath Loghain's fingers weren't tensing up. Instead Alistair bent his head slightly, accepting the gentle contact. He leaned into Loghain's hand, like a mabari wanting a pat. He remained silent as he turned and laid his hands on Loghain's shoulders. They stood together, Loghain encircled in Alistair's arms, as Alistair's hands moved slowly over Loghain's armor, his fingers sliding, tracing the shapes of vambraces, pauldrons and breastplate.

Alistair's eyes closed, and a small triumphant grin curved his lips as his fingers skimmed deftly over the dragonscale plates and the fastenings between. Here and there they paused to tighten a buckle and to adjust a strap, but mainly Alistair's hands just traced the sleek contours with an odd reverence, as if Loghain's armor was a work of art, a statue on display, or an idol erected for worship.

Loghain stood still, allowing Alistair's slowly stroking hands to drift all over his armor. All the while, he watched the other man, studying the contentment in his face, wondering what prompted this strange ritual, and what was going on behind that ambiguous little smile, those closed eyes.

"Yeah," Alistair breathed at last, "Knew I'd remember yours by touch as well. Don't think I could ever forget it."

Loghain's breathing caught, because he'd been blindsided by a sudden realisation: in Alistair's eyes, he was starting to take on Duncan's mantle, as surely as he'd donned the Archdemon plate.

* * *

They made their way down to the pass, using the wooden ramps that had been hastily constructed to give the army access. The ramps and scaffolding were meant to be destroyed if the battle in the pass was lost; yet here they were, still unbroken, like a skeleton of reddish timbers over the rock. It could only mean that the darkspawn's unexpected emergence from the Tower had occupied all the upper levels' defenders. No-one had been left to cut the scaffolding down or set it afire.

The fact that a sign of their defeat was helping them now, was an irony that Loghain contemplated with a connoisseur's sour eye.

As they descended, Loghain searched through the taint for any disturbance, no matter how far away, but so far the faint, distant itch remained just that. So he whistled and Dog followed them, great mabari paws slipping clumsily on the wet wood, claws digging into the ramp's rotting planks.

The narrowness of the pass, the height of the surrounding hills and the arch of the bridge screened out much of the snow and wind, though the cold was just as fierce. Below, there was frozen dirt dark with taint under thin dustings of snow, and corpses - soldiers and darkspawn - scattered at least as thickly as they were on the bridge, and over a far greater area.

As they came down, the darkness grew. The dog let out a faint whine, at another endless turn of the ramps. "Almost there," Loghain reassured him, "Good boy." The dog gave him a tail-wag, but it looked halfhearted.

Alistair winced and then rubbed his forehead. "Ugh, do you feel that? Like an itch, only small and _itchy_."

"An itchy itch, imagine my shock," Loghain replied dryly, then focused again on the taint. Nothing seemed different from the last time he'd checked. He shrugged his verdict to Alistair. Then he turned back to the dog and muttered in a grimly determined attempt to raise the spirits of his two remaining troops, "Did you hear that? Itching. I told you you'd got those fleas from him. Serves you right for letting him use you as a pillow." The mabari snorted dryly at him, and so did Alistair.

As they neared the ground, a few bodies of fleeing soldiers were scattered across the ramp. They paused without much hope to look at each, before nudging them out of the way and continuing downwards. Then they were standing on the floor of the pass and the sky was little more than a strip of deep blue far overhead. The punishing glare and winds of Ostagar's upper levels already felt far behind. The air was comparatively still, and their every footfall seemed loud in the oppressive hush.

The slaughter was far worse down here: the pitched battle and the trampling feet of large forces had caused more brutal carnage than the relatively clean archery kills that were more common on the bridge. Loghain was no raw recruit; he'd seen butchery as horrendous as this before. But those battles had all been part of the Rebellion, decades ago. Those battles hadn't involved the twisted monstrosities of the darkspawn. They hadn't left the very earth tainted. And in the hectic years of the Rebellion, he seldom had the leisure to get to know the troops under his command.

This time, it was different. This time, the bodies weren't simply faceless, unknown casualties. This time, he'd been the General of Ferelden's armies for decades. He'd had the time to get to know his soldiers, and he'd been proud to do so. Some, like Cauthrien, had become friends.

So now, wherever he looked, he saw the faces of people he'd known, in the rags of freeze-dried flesh stretched over skulls. It made all the difference in the world.

And he couldn't even do as he'd done until now: take the simple refuge of looking away from faces frozen in pain, shrunken in death. No, now he had to deliberately examine every last one of the poor sods. Because he'd made a promise to Alistair, to help him find a needle in this hideous haystack: the body of a man who, as far as Loghain was concerned, deserved a large part of the blame for this whole catastrophe.

Alistair stumbled from body to body, checking them one by one. His head was bowed, his eyes fixed on the corpses, his broad shoulders slumped as he methodically looked at one twisted, shrivelled form after another. His downturned face had a stoic expression. To Loghain he looked like a forlorn new recruit to the Templars, the lowest of the low in the Chantry's hierarchy, slaving away at a task too dirty for the lily-white hands of any of his 'superiors'.

* * *

It was impossible to tell how long their search had gone on. The distorted, dried out faces began to blend together. Loghain was worried that he'd examined a few of them twice. He could've sworn he'd seen this patch of the valley before.

Loghain raked his hands wearily through his hair as he straightened up. The light was starting to ebb: only slightly so far, but here in the depths of the pass, night would come fast and dark. It was time to call a halt. He strode up to Alistair. Despite his best efforts, his footfalls were clearly audible in the hush.

As he approached, Alistair turned to him and mutely shook his head. His stare was so bleak, as lifeless as any corpse's.

"It'll be dark soon," Loghain sighed. "We should go back up, find somewhere defensible to sleep."

"Yeah." Alistair cast one last look over the battlefield, his stare so intense as it jumped from one spot to the other, as if he'd hoped for nothing short of a miracle to happen. "We'll come back tomorrow morning, when the light's better." He sounded like he was trying to convince himself.

He turned toward the ramp, walking beside and a little ahead of Loghain. Alistair moved easily enough that he couldn't have been hiding any serious injuries, but Loghain still felt concerned on his behalf. Alistair's expression was as absent as a man mastered by blood magic; instead of his normal grace he moved with the weary stiffness of an animated corpse.

While Loghain was studying Alistair's expression, his eyes were caught by something on the edge of his vision. It looked at first like an outcropping of stone, covered in snow, but now that he wasn't so focused on his search for human bodies, Loghain noticed the shape, entirely too humanoid to be just a feature of the landscape._ At that size, it's got to be an ogre._ Loghain huffed irritably, exhaling a plume of frosty vapour. _And it'd be just like vainglorious bastards like Duncan to think they could take on ogres singlehanded._

He drew breath to suggest to Alistair that they search the area around the ogre, but at that moment Loghain felt the former itch in the taint sharpen into a needle-sting of pain: a single darkspawn, close. He turned his head to and fro, homing in on the direction, when that slight pang was lost beneath an aching twist in the taint that he'd only felt once before: when the necromancer had built and released the magical maelstrom that had raised the darkspawn corpses.

Alistair's choked cry of 'Look out!' told Loghain the unsurprising news that he had felt it too. Alistair moved to stand back to back with Loghain. Together they drew their swords and readied their shields. In this narrow part of the pass, soldiers' corpses were much more numerous than darkspawn; it was what had kept them searching so long in this area. Still, here and there some of the bodies started to stir, ice scattering as hurlocks and genlocks began to stagger stiffly to their feet.

"Get it!" Loghain pointed his sword at the necromancer standing on a snowy slope above them. He knew full well that only Alistair's templar abilities stood any chance of stopping the deadly magic. At once Alistair sprinted up the slope toward the necromancer, chanting breathlessly as he ran, racing against time. Most of the slowly stirring corpses were between him and the necromancer; he had to get to it and kill it before he was surrounded and overwhelmed.

Among the hurlocks, an undead emissary wrenched its staff free of a crust of snow and unleashed a burst of fire that caught Alistair in the shoulder. He cried out, but it didn't spread further. Something had clearly blocked most of the damage: Loghain would have bet on those amulets around his neck.

All this had passed in a few moments. Loghain had finished assessing the necromancer's troops and formulating his battle strategy, and had taken off in a run of his own when he heard a sudden rumble, as of a rockslide, shaking the earth beneath his feet. He slid to a halt and whirled, standing agape as the ogre - which a moment ago had been frozen solid and deader than dirt - rose to its knees and then to its feet, snow showering from it as its shadow engulfed him. In the sudden darkness, the lyrium of the many runes on Maric's sword blazed like blue lightning. Loghain sprinted away from Alistair, circling around the ogre, waving the sword as he ran, so that it left blue trails in the darkness like a shower of falling stars. "COME ON!" he roared, and his cry echoed in the narrow pass, loud enough to make an impression even on ears frozen solid. "TRY ME, IF YOU DARE! I FIGHT FOR FERELDEN!"

The ogre should have roared a challenge of its own, full of sound and spite and spittle. But it did not. It just turned and lumbered after Loghain, implacable as nightfall, and the utter absence of reaction in its dead, gray face was somehow even worse than the usual savage snarls.

Loghain ran on, leading the ogre as far away as he could, hearing the thud Thud THUD of its huge feet coming ever closer, searching in vain for advantages in the lay of the land. When the ominous sound of footsteps was far too close, Loghain whirled, snatching a spear from a body and hurling it with all his strength.

Incredibly, it struck true, piercing the ogre's eye with enough force to drive half its length straight into the brain. The ogre stumbled to a halt. As Loghain put more distance between them, it lifted one claw and pulled out the spear. There was no blood, no reaction of any kind. The ogre simply dropped the spear and kept on walking.

The lack of reaction to that magnificent throw was so anticlimactic that Loghain barked a brief, despairing laugh. _Of course, it's already dead, why would __**that **__bother it?_ He thought back to the darkspawn corpses on the bridge, which didn't stop attacking until they were physically dismembered. _Dismembering something the size of an ogre would be a task for a company of soldiers. I don't stand a chance!_

_Who cares. I've got to buy Alistair time. I'll just hope that he can kill the necromancer fast enough, and that these things will die with it. Otherwise... I have to keep the ogre distracted, moving away from Alistair, as long as I can. It's that simple. _

_I need to flank it, cut the hamstrings or heel tendons..._ Loghain's thoughts were sharp and efficient as he ran, ducking as the ogre grabbed at him. There was no one but him to distract the monster from Alistair, and no one at all to distract it from him. _It's fight or die. Or fight __**and**__ die. _A vicious snarl bared his teeth._ We'll see who ends up dying. __**I'm**__ not dead yet! _

The ogre abruptly lowered its horned head and charged, a rush of speed as thunderous as an avalanche. Loghain sprinted to one side, dodging the crushing impact of the brute's massive head and shoulders. But at the last instant one clawed fist lashed out and just managed to snag him.

Loghain was ripped off the ground in a sickening, disorienting blur of speed. The massive fist closed around his body in a punishing grip as the monster did its best to crush the life from him. The dragonscale plates of his armor flexed under the brutal pressure, screeching as their edges scraped against each other. But they held, when even silverite would have crumpled.

As the ogre squeezed him, Loghain lashed out with Maric's blade, hacking fiercely at the base of the ogre's thumb. He wasn't deterred by the lack of blood flow from severed arteries and veins, by the lack of reaction from the ogre, by the continuation of the relentless, crushing pressure. He went on chopping, more determined than any woodsman, hacking at the bared gristle, again, again.

Severing, one by one, the tendons that allowed the beast to close its thumb. As if only then the rotten remains of its brain had noticed his plan, the ogre raised its fist, clearly intending to slam him to the ground. He braced his feet against its palm, pushed its ruined thumb away, and fell.

Loghain saved himself from a plummet that would surely have broken his neck, when his left hand closed on the hilt of a sword still jutting from the ogre's body. He swung wildly from that grip, then slammed against the ogre's chest with a grunt that knocked the wind from him and almost tore his fist loose. He saved himself by stabbing Maric's sword to the hilt in the ogre's chest, beside the old, dried wound the other sword had made: the wound that must've killed the beast the first time.

With his right fist clenched on Maric's blade and his left on the other, Loghain gathered the last rags of his strength and wrenched the swords sideways away from each other, using them both to lever open the ogre's ribcage. The deep, dry gash of its mortal wound tore wider with a creak of dessicated flesh, a crack of splintering ribs. In the fetid darkness within, Loghain glimpsed the thing's dead heart, a greenish sack of rotten meat.

Even when it had been wounded so badly, the ogre still didn't roar. Of course not: it hadn't drawn a breath to power such a sound. But it raised boulder-hard fists and started pounding on Loghain's back. Without the dragonscale armor, he would have been pulverised by the first blow. As it was, the armor flexed and screeched wildly, and Loghain's ribcage flexed with it. His body was driven into the ogre's chest, the swords were driven deeper still, and his head was forced between the swords in his fists, into the reeking gash over the ogre's heart.

Loghain forced his mind away from the brutal pounding on his body, the jolting, disorienting pain. He was no mage, but he'd lived long enough to hear many things about magic. Some themes were constant. The brain was important: well, he'd damaged that with the spear, and it hadn't even slowed the brute down. Now, all he had left to try was the other important organ: the heart. He was just gathering himself to attack the heart, when the ghastly thing glowed, like the orb of malicious force had glowed in the necromancer's grasp. The ogre's dead heart convulsed once, _beating,_ as if it was still alive, and then it exploded in Loghain's face.

Loghain's world went black, buried beneath a burst of lightning-barbed, malevolent magic and a sickening wet wave of stinking corruption that soaked him all over.

And then he was falling.

Falling forever.


	10. Pyrrhic Victory

**CHAPTER 10: Pyrrhic Victory**

Alistair was cutting down the closest darkspawn when Loghain pointed out the necromancer.

_Magic!_ Alistair broke into a run, eager as a mabari charging prey, heading straight for the malignant creature. Here was a foe Alistair was uniquely trained to fight.

He was so focused on the necromancer that he missed the much less powerful emissary closer to him, until its fireball caught him in the shoulder. Lying next to his heart, under his armor, Solona's amulet pulsed against his skin once, twice, absorbing the heat, making it bearable. Solona's protection was still with him, though she was long gone.

Far from collapsing in flames, instead Alistair hacked off the emissary's arms without breaking stride, leaving the animated corpse staggering uselessly in his wake, unable to cast. Alistair didn't bother to finish the grunt work of dismembering the thing. He had one target in his sights, and nothing was going to slow him down.

Alistair was working against time: with every second that passed, more of the darkspawn dead that lay between him and the necromancer staggered to their feet, tore rusted weapons from old ice or from soldier bodies, and moved to protect their master.

Alistair had to get close enough to the necromancer that his chant could reach its monstrous senses, and his holy fire could strike it down. He couldn't allow anything else to matter to him: certainly not the frozen, ruined corpses, twisted things without end, that were closing in on him. A growling black thundercloud of a horde, a teeming mass that swarmed out of his nightmare and gaped to devour the whole world.

But the mental fortress of Alistair's focus on his quarry was shaken by the realisation that Loghain wasn't with him. The fiercely protective fury that had flared through the taint, the lightning sword and sheltering shield that had covered for him in all their previous battles, was entirely gone. Alistair was fighting alone.

All alone.

With a desperate roar, Alistair raised his sword and swung it against another attacker's snarling skull.

_Maker, what was I thinking the first time? When all I wanted was to fight in the army at Ostagar, when I was so bitter at being sent on a fool's errand: helping Solona light a beacon._

_When Duncan sent me there, he saved my life._

Something was burning. The smoke was coming from his own shoulder. Alistair smelled the stench of singed leather, but the rush of the battle left him numb to his burning-hot pauldron.

Solona's amulet could only do so much.

_Duncan... Solona... Maker, keep them both. Maker help us. Keep us safe. _

"I shall not fear the legion, should they set themselves against me... Though all before me" - _before __**us**__, _Alistair's mind corrected him, _**us**__, Loghain needs protection too, wherever he is - _"is shadow... Yet shall the Maker be my guide."

The chant came as natural as breathing, as Alistair kept advancing, slicing his way through a turbulent sea of rising corpses. His mind flowed along the rhythmic river of that familiar cadence, and although he missed Loghain's support fiercely, he didn't let it disrupt his focus; although he stabbed and sliced and parried, he kept his eyes and his mind on the goal: the creature he had to stop at any cost. _Stop it, and it won't raise any more corpses. Stop it, and maybe we'll stand a chance... _"For there is no darkness in the Maker's Light and nothing that He has wrought shall be lost... _NOW!"_

The necromancer lifted its bone staff and Alistair saw the magical energy gathering at the tip, focusing into a single bursting ball of dark magic, like a thundercloud full of lyrium-infused lightning. Alistair brought all his wavering faith, all his need, all his desperate drive to save his home from the Blight into a single concentrated thought, stretching past his limits, aching to reach that small cliff where the necromancer stood. "I shall embrace the light! I shall weather the storm! I shall endure!"

His heartbeat, his tainted blood, all pulsed in the same frantic rhythm, in harmony with the chant.

_**We** shall embrace the light! **We** shall weather the storm! **We **shall endure!_

The thundercloud mass at the tip of the bone staff didn't explode after all. Instead it grew smaller, like a melting hump of snow, dripping taint and drifting smoke until it sizzled out and...

_There! _

Alistair didn't have enough left for one more word of the chant. All the breath in his body left him in one raw, roaring cry. All his anger and all his need concentrated in a burst of righteous fire that exploded from him.

The world went white.

Alistair staggered, blinking away searing afterimages, just in time to see the necromancer plummet over the cliff like a rag doll. It struck the rocks at the foot of the slope and lay there, unmoving.

All around Alistair, all over the pass, darkspawn corpses collapsed back into death.

It was over. Alistair had won.

_They_ won! Together. "Hey, we did it!" Alistair yelled gleefully, relief bursting from him in a shout of triumphant laughter, as he whirled, gaze flicking everywhere at once, searching for a familiar figure in glossy dark plate. "Loghain! We DID it!"

His answer was Dog's cheerful bark and...

Silence. Silence and cold and darkness, growing ever thicker. The sudden absence of sound boomed in Alistair's ears, hollow as a tomb.

"Loghain?" Alistair cried, panic sharp in his gut as he turned in place, staring at the spiky silhouettes of trees, the fractured stone of the cliffs, the taint-black earth and the sea of corpses. "LOGHAAAIIIN!"

His voice echoed weakly from the looming sides of the pass, from the vaulted arches of the bridge far above. He could taste the sour tang of fear, feel it twisting his guts. He tightened his fists to stave off the shaking, but he could do nothing about the pounding of his heart. With a shuddering gasp, he threw his attention from the deceiving shadows of the physical world, into the taint, trying to sense Loghain in it. But all was silent.

All was cold.

For days now - ever since he'd crossed Loghain's path, Alistair realised at last - he'd grown so used to the bedrock-solid reassurance of Loghain's presence with him in the taint. He'd become accustomed to basking in a warmth as certain as the sun. And just like the sun, he'd taken it for granted.

No more. Now, Alistair was cold all over, inside and out, cold down to his soul. As cold and alone as he'd been on the worst day of his life: when Solona had left him behind, Loghain striding at her side.

That thought - that Loghain might be at her side now, that he might have left Alistair all alone in the world once more - wrenched a raw, low "No!" from him, guttural as the grunt of a wounded man.

He jumped at the sound of an answering whine, but it was only the dog, gazing up at him with mournful dark eyes. When their gazes crossed, the hound huffed agreement and dropped his muzzle to the earth, snuffling to and fro, casting about for a scent. Then the mabari gave a single, sharp bark and took off at a run, and Alistair sprinted after him, heart in his throat, stumbling over the dead, making his way deeper into the darkness half-blindly, by feel, by sound.

The dog barked for him. He followed, topping a low rise and seeing a dim blue glow seeping from a dark mass on the ground. It took him a moment to identify the black silhouette as an ogre corpse. He rushed to the hillock-sized mound of the body, climbing toward the low gleam. It came from a foul, gory fissure in the ogre's chest: specifically, from a sword buried in the cavernous wound.

_Maric's blade,_ Alistair could almost hear Loghain's voice choking out the words, _I'd know it anywhere._

Alistair seized the hilt and wrenched the sword free of the wound, and as the blade slid clear of the corpse until all its runes were revealed, the blue light intensified until it chased back the shadows. They loomed, held at bay, as Alistair blinked and scrubbed at his bleary eyes with his free hand.

The new light revealed that Maric's wasn't the only blade buried in the ogre's chest. Two more hilts projected from it: a dagger and a sword. Alistair blinked, numb with shock. He would have recognized the designs on those hilts anywhere, at the slightest glance.

_Duncan's! He must've killed this thing. The first time around, that is._

But even that didn't really matter to Alistair anymore. Not now. Not when he _had _to find Loghain. Before he was left with only relics to remember him by, as well.

_Where **is** he?_

Alistair stumbled away from the ogre, then spun and ran instantly toward the mabari's sudden burst of barking. In the lyrium-blue glow, Alistair glimpsed a dark figure - human - sprawled at the ogre's feet.

_Loghain!_

Alistair skidded to a halt, falling to his knees and thrusting Maric's sword into the earth beside him, where it shone like a beacon, its blue glow illuminating an armored man whose head and upper body were drenched in stinking black gore. Alistair panted shallowly through his mouth at the sickening reek of rotten blood, tasting the filth in the air all the same. He ripped off his gauntlet and reached for Loghain's throat, pressed trembling fingertips to soft, gore-wet skin. He _needed _to know for sure that this man was still alive.

_Still warm. There!_ A shaky sob burst from him as he felt the slow beat of Loghain's pulse. With shaking hands he ripped off his other gauntlet, reached again for Loghain's pulse, this time with both hands, curving them around Loghain's throat as if strangling him, like he'd wanted to so long ago. But instead of crushing the life from the man, Alistair embraced the slow beat of Loghain's lifeblood, cradled the man's pulse in the warm cup of his palms, just like he'd shield the first gleams of fire in kindling from harsh winds. He closed his eyes and searched the taint, felt himself drawn toward the faintest possible flicker. He concentrated on that one tiny spark, like a dragon hoarding his gold in a dark cave.

Kneeling over Loghain's sprawled body, Alistair threw back his head, turned his face to the darkening sky and gave a single broken pant of absolute relief. _**Alive!**__ He's alive!_

_...For now,_ a cautioning inner voice warned him, in a familiar bone-dry baritone.

Under Alistair's hands, Loghain lay as still as death. Alistair's fingers slipped in the black slick of gore that coated Loghain's throat.

_Gah, where'd this stuff come from? That ogre? Maker, it's like he's drowning in it. _

_Drowning! _Alistair's eyes widened and he lunged to grab Loghain, turn him onto his side. He splayed his hands on the man's broad back and pushed, throwing his weight behind it, wincing at the creak of cracked ribs, but not daring to relent.

Loghain bled, vomited, wept darkness; it was as if he was _made _of it and Alistair was wringing his essential taint from him, making it leak from his every pore. Ribbons of inky fluid spilled and stretched from his mouth and nose and ears, trickled like black tears from the corners of his eyes.

Alistair pushed again, chanting under his breath, not _the _chant, but _his _chant: "Breathe! Breathe!" He rocked his weight back and forth, pressing down through his braced arms, keeping Loghain's lungs moving in a steady rhythm, the way he'd seen Sister Sarah do once, saving an orphan who'd fallen into the creek near the Chantry.

_Come on! **Live!**_

The slow trickle of liquid taint from Loghain's mouth became an abrupt fountain, as the coughing reflex kicked in at last, and spatters of liquid corruption stained the ground.

"Yeah, that's it! Come on," Alistair muttered, his arms around Loghain's chest, supporting him as his whole body was wracked by wrenching spasms of raw, hoarse coughing. At that moment, it was the most welcome sound Alistair could imagine. "I've got you. Breathe! Yes! I've got you."

But after the coughing had subsided, and his breathing had settled into a slow but congested rhythm, Loghain still lay inert. Alistair half-lifted the unconscious man, shouted his name, shook him, tried his damnedest to wake him. Nothing. Loghain's body slumped, limp as a marionette in Alistair's arms. He still felt warm to the touch, but the small amount of skin not covered in blood was deathly pale. An ebbing trickle of blood - too black to be his own - ran from the corner of his mouth, as his head lolled onto his chest.

_He's breathing, he has to be all right! _Alistair wasn't panicking, he wasn't! He pinched Loghain's ear, hard, but there wasn't even the faintest flinch in the man's closed eyelids. Alistair swallowed convulsively. He couldn't panic. Loghain needed him. Loghain needed poultices, injury kits, but where? Short of slathering them all over him and maybe even forcing them down his throat for good measure, Alistair had no idea what to do. Besides, he didn't have that much on him, the rest of the healing supplies were outside the gate with the horse. _Poultices. … Wounds. Oh, Maker! _

Alistair was blindsided by the terrifying realisation that he knew very little about healing. _Oh, sure, I knew enough to cry for help when Wynne or Solona, or even Morrigan were around, but I've got no magical help now. Neither of us have. The Dog could probably do a better job of healing than me, by licking his wounds clean! But he needs help. Competent help. And there's no one to help but me._

Alistair settled Loghain's head in his lap, ran his fingers carefully through hair caked with clotted blood, feeling his scalp, searching for injuries, fractures, bruising, anything that would explain his unconsciousness. _Nothing._ His hands darted to the man's armor, hastily loosening straps just enough that he could slip his hands under the plates, checking for injuries, broken bones. He felt the familiar creak of cracked ribs, but sighed relief as no wounds more serious than that met his uncertain touch.

"Right," he muttered with the shaking voice of a man with a longstanding habit of chanting to calm himself down. "You're not badly wounded, not anywhere I can tell. So what's wrong with you?" He frowned, ran his hands over Loghain's lax body, tried to wipe the black taint off his pallid skin. In the gloom of the pass, Loghain's gaunt face, eyesockets shadowed by sleeplessness, looked far too much like a skull. Like just one more of the countless dead that littered the floor of the pass.

A wave of weariness washed over Alistair as he gazed down at Loghain's face: pale and angular as bone flayed bare by pitiless mountain winds. _I've got to get you out of here. The sooner the better._

_Only one way up and out of this bloody mess,_ Alistair sighed, scrubbing his eyes as he looked up at the rickety ramps that zigzagged up the side of the pass, _and it's not going to be easy, but it's got to be done._

* * *

Alistair hauled King Maric's sword out of the ground, knowing that Loghain wouldn't have wanted it left behind. Then his attention was caught by the other blades buried in the ogre's chest. Alistair wrenched out Duncan's sword and dagger, and held them limply in his hands, staring down at their familiar shapes, stained now with unfamiliar rust. He felt none of the triumph he'd always thought he'd feel at recovering Duncan's belongings. Instead, guilt burned in his thoughts as fiercely as that fireball had burned his skin: more so, since no amulet could protect him from his own regrets. As Alistair gazed numbly at Duncan's blades, the realisation hit him: they'd probably be the only mementos of the man that Alistair would ever recover from Ostagar.

Because Alistair knew that he - that _they _- couldn't afford to stay any longer. They had to get out of here. They had to find somewhere safe. Somewhere to heal.

_I talked Loghain into coming here, and now he's almost d... he's in trouble. _Alistair could no longer justify risking another man's life to continue his search for relics of the dead. So he served a self-imposed penance for his previous, poor priorities by collecting all three weapons as swiftly as he could and dragging Loghain to the ramps, with only slight assistance from the mabari.

Loghain was a dead weight, head lolling as if his neck had been broken, armored heels dragging as he was hauled slowly up the ramps by Alistair and the dog. His hair hung in his face, stiff with tainted blood. Only the occasional guttural groan, a sound as wet and choked as a drowning victim's, reassured Alistair that he wasn't wasting all his painstaking efforts in hauling a corpse.

"Hang on," Alistair told him after what seemed like forever, as they left the last of the ramps behind, emerging from the tomb-narrow darkness of the pass into the wider, starry night of Ostagar's ruins. "Almost here."

Now in the ghostly glow of starlight on snow, Alistair felt like a lonely corpse collector, surrounded by dead and dying things. Even the weapons at his back, even the amulets over his heart, were rusted, cracked, mementos of the deceased. Even the man in his arms lay hovering on the brink of death.

_All because of me!_

_It was my idea to come here. I'm the one who talked him into this. He was hurt protecting me. _

_Maker... _A litany of thought came to Alistair, as familiar as the chant. The years of templar training had schooled his mind into soliloquy, always with the hope that a higher power was listening. It was as inevitable as breathing, that as his mind calmed, he would put his deepest, most desperate urges into words. Even if those words never made it into speech, into audible chant, yet still they ran in his soul, deeper than any of the Chantry's officially sanctioned verses. This prayer was infinitely more potent than any of the chant, because it was infinitely more personal.

_Maker, spare him. Let him live. He can't die, not yet! Wardens know when their end is drawing near, and they choose to go out and meet it on their own terms before it can come for them, and that's only right and noble; but not like this. Not like Duncan! Not yet. It's too soon. The Wardens need him. **I **need him! Maker, **please!**_

Alistair knew full well that he hardly deserved to ask for such a favour, especially not since he'd once prayed to be the one to kill Loghain, but he didn't know what else to do.

Alistair's thoughts were torn away from prayers by a long, low moan from Loghain, a trailing "Nnnooo..." that broke off in a fit of choked, jolting coughs; they sounded almost like series of sobs. The horrible sound subsided into another low hum of aching, instinctive distress, ending in another half-strangled cry... "mmmMARIC!" Loghain's arms lifted in a single, brief thrash, hands jerking up and out, reaching. And then he slumped and was still once more, and silent apart from the low, bubbling rasp of his breathing.

"What?" Alistair crouched over Loghain, trying to hold on. "Maric? I've got his sword right here, I didn't leave it." He leaned down close enough to feel and hear Loghain's breath in the dark and had to tell himself to keep going.

As he struggled endlessly onward, with a weight that seemed to grow heavier as the moon rose, Alistair's sense of wading through the timeless, twilit unreality of the Fade intensified: his every movement grew sluggish, clumsy with weariness. Even his thoughts faded to a dazed, lightheaded slowness. So many nights he'd spent wrapped in a recurring dream, a normal, human dream, when the hold of the Blight was still new, and some of his dreams were still untainted by darkspawn nightmares. Night after night, he'd dreamed of exactly this: coming back to Ostagar and finding Duncan. Somehow Duncan was still alive. And Alistair singlehandedly rescued his fellow Warden, his hero, and carried him away from all the carnage, away to safety, and everything was all right again. As it should have been.

For that reason, dragging Loghain out of Ostagar to safety felt utterly surreal. As if Alistair's irrational dream had impossibly become reality.

A shudder that was only partly caused by the bitter cold shook him out of his exhausted daze. He had to get them both out of here. His attention narrowed to that thought; the words cadenced to his gasping breaths. Gotta. Get. Out. Gotta...

The singleminded urge to keep going didn't stop until Alistair staggered to a halt among the trees outside Ostagar's front gate. Alistair made for where they'd tethered the horse, hoping against hope that darkspawn or blighted beasts hadn't killed it while they were away. He never thought that familiar four-legged silhouette would look quite so good, or that inquiring whinny would sound so sweet.

Alistair let go of Loghain's shoulders and he slumped to the ground, like one of the horde of dead now covering the ground of Ostagar. But this particular body still had life in it, and Alistair was determined to keep it there. His hands shook with urgency and weariness as he gathered enough wood for a small fire, as he struck the flint against his sword and waited for sparks to settle and for flames to spread.

The dragonscale armor was familiar enough to Alistair that he knew the position and the order of every strap, every buckle. He stripped away the plates in minimum time. The gambeson was more difficult, but at last it was off and Alistair could get a much better idea of the damage. A bit of rag and some water, and he was painstakingly swabbing away streaks of black ichor that had soaked through the gaps in the plate and the layers beneath. In the eerie blue light of the King's blade, he examined Loghain carefully for wounds.

As he'd suspected from his hasty initial examination down in the pass, Loghain's physical injuries weren't life-threatening. Even after the gore was sponged away, his skin was black-and-blue with bruising, and Alistair confirmed the creaking feel of cracked ribs on both sides of Loghain's chest. He used an injury kit and applied a poultice, in the way that had rapidly become familiar during his time on the road with Solona. Although Alistair had always seen someone else use them on him, he figured he'd seen it done enough times to be pretty clear on the principle. After all, Loghain had said he'd done a good job making the poultices; Alistair told himself he couldn't be completely hopeless at being on the other end of the process. _He'll heal, in time. He has to!_

The relative simplicity of Loghain's physical injuries was a profound relief, at first. But then Alistair had a moment to think it over and really, it was deeply worrying: nothing accounted for Loghain's continuing unconsciousness. Alistair went through an entire injury kit and a generous dose of health poultices, feeling through the dark, taint-sticky clumps of hair to examine Loghain's skull, in case there was a fracture or some other damage he couldn't detect.

For all the good it did, he might as well have saved himself the effort. Loghain lay there, pale and still as death, impossible to wake.

It took the length of rope Loghain had salvaged from Alistair's escape, a lot of ingenuity, and the last reserves of Alistair's strength, but eventually he hoisted Loghain onto the horse. Alistair climbed into the saddle behind him and wrapped his arms around the man as he sagged over the horse's neck, reaching past him to seize the reins in both hands.

As the horse lurched into motion, Alistair found he had strength after all, for one last prayer: _Maker, please don't let us fall off!_

* * *

After calling out Maric's name, Loghain didn't wake throughout the night. He slumped over the saddle as Alistair held the reins and held him, kept him from tumbling off the horse on every turning of the way. Alistair steered cautiously as the horse walked downhill after Dog, on a path even Alistair thought was too overgrown to warrant the name.

At least down here in the foothills they were out of the snow.

Loghain stirred or muttered unintelligibly once or twice, and each time Alistair brushed the heavy braids off his face and tilted his head up, in hopes that the worst was over. But when Alistair thumbed open Loghain's eyelids, his eyes remained glazed and unresponsive, his breathing stayed faint and nearly undetectable, and his limbs were lax and boneless.

_What was I thinking, going in without a healer? _

For all the holy, magic-cleansing ways any templar was taught inside and out, Alistair still couldn't slide his hands over Loghain's unconscious body and cure him in a heartbeat with a recited chant.

What good were all the canticles in the Chant of Light if they didn't let spirit and faith and mind make a difference when it was needed most? What good was Alistair, when Wynne would've taken care of Loghain in a heartbeat with a single quickly-cast spell, if only she was here instead of him? For all Alistair's templar abilities, for all the chants he knew by heart, it was magic - dangerous, uncertain, demon-spawning magic - that meant the difference between life and death.

And Alistair, for all his studies and all his training, could only ever _kill _magic, erase it from the world, as if it had never existed. And destroying magic was considered a holy act, declared to be the Maker's will. _But how can that be? It makes no sense! Magic saves lives! It's saved mine._

All Alistair could do was hold on, and trust the horse to take them away from that place of death, out through the Wilds and toward shelter.

His hopes were now dependent on a chance. _Perhaps an apostate. A maleficar unafraid of the Blighted lands. _ Alistair didn't know whether it was good or bad luck that they hadn't encountered a maleficar. If they had, and if one had offered him a deal - his blood for a cure - for the first time in his life Alistair had no idea how he would've responded.

* * *

Loghain floated, adrift in a black sea of tainted blood. Malicious magic exploded in his face, drenching his senses, drowning him deep. He was dead: dead and rotten, his heart full of black corruption.

His corpse was huge, bloated, frozen. For an endless time it lay inert; then it stirred, jerked out of the grip of ice and death by another's will. Memories stirred, like stagnant water over old decay. Memories of when his body was still alive, reaching out to seize a tempting target, a manikin in shiny gold, with shiny gold hair. He remembered roaring victory and squeezing the shiny thing in his fist, crushing it in a burst of red triumph, flinging it aside, broken. He remembered a darker one springing, stabbing him, climbing his body, punching sharp pain into his chest. He remembered bleeding, stumbling, dying. Dying together with his killer.

The memories didn't matter. Death didn't matter. Now he faced another tiny attacker, even darker than the one that had killed him, dark and sleek as the Archdemon, waving a sword of blue magic light. The creature was defying him, but he was faster and stronger. He ran it down and snatched it up to crush it, like the golden one.

But it wouldn't be crushed. It was as hard as the Archdemon, and its blade hurt like death as it broke his grip, as it stabbed him to the heart, as it killed him again.

Loghain moaned, lost in painful memories that weren't his, but that were now intertwined with his, mingling with his own, as much a part of him as the taint in his blood.

Memories of a golden youth in golden armor: gliding like a butterfly from one glittering prize to the next, crushed like a butterfly in a callous hand, pinned like a butterfly to a collector's board.

_Cailan... You could have been my son._

More memories stirred. Another time, another man, lost forever, mourned forever.

The golden mane flowed in the sea breeze, as Maric turned away from Loghain, to board the ship that carried him to death in deep water... Loghain's soul cried out in anguish.

_Maric... You could have been my lover._

The red-gold nimbus of short hair glowed in the afternoon sun, and Alistair turned away from Loghain, looking so much like his father before him, holding a rose as red as Rowan's dress, as unforgettable as long lost love, heedless of the thorns.

A searing cry went unvoiced, buried deep, too deep to ever be relieved by grief, by revisiting memories. Because Loghain knew that this Theirin man had not yet joined him in the Fade, and the barrier between Loghain and the living world was now too high for him to cross.

_Alistair... Farewell._

* * *

**Notes**

Alistair is using the verses from the Canticle of Trials during the battle with the necromancer.


	11. Life and Death And What Comes After

**CHAPTER 11: Life and Death... And What Comes After**

_Right, _Alistair thought._ I'm in charge. I have to stay in control. Everything's up to me now. _He took a deep breath. He knew better than to feel sure that this sort of stern mental talk would be enough to dissolve his unease. _Still, I suppose it's worth a try_, he told himself.

Turned out, it wasn't enough, not by a long shot. Alistair exhaled, and there it was still: that heartstopping, mindchilling pressure of holding a helpless man's life in his hands. _What if I make a mistake? Maker! Mistakes happen all the time, when you least expect them. But if I do something wrong now, then Loghain will be the one who pays the price._

He shook his head. _Enough!_ _No time to think about that now. We've got to get out of here!_

It helped just a bit to focus outwards, on the fact that Dog was ahead of them, leading, that Loghain's horse made its way downhill without so much as a nudge from Alistair.

The lowlands were shrouded in fog, thick enough to limit visibility in a worrying way. It was a marked change after the pitiless snow-covered glare of Ostagar. The path passed through spindly stands of conifers, forcing Alistair to duck low-hanging prickly branches that loomed suddenly out of the mist to shower him with dew and cobwebs. He winced and clawed sticky strands off his face. More cobwebs dangled from wet branches, grey as the mist, beaded with foggy droplets and thin enough to stretch and tear at a touch: nothing like the deadly snares spun by giant spiders. Alistair remembered all too well how Loghain once spoke to him of spidersilk, his voice lulling Alistair into an awed near-trance with its danger and possibility. But these webs were only ever spun to trap bugs, not humans.

Aside from a few brief glimpses of thankfully un-Blighted wolves, all was quiet. Alistair's constant, worried search of the taint yielded no sense of danger, nothing apart from the faintest possible glimmer from the man slumped against his chest, lolling slightly to and fro in the circle of his arms. Not that Alistair was much steadier in the saddle than Loghain: he fought his own exhaustion until the slow, cautious pace of the horse picking its way between patches of swamp finally lulled him into a daze, nodding on the brink of sleep.

_Maybe we should head for the highway. It's where people would be, _he thought blearily. But it seemed even the horse and Dog supported his earlier choice. The mabari trotted along narrow paths left untrodden for seasons, heading onward, ever deeper into seemingly unexplored wilderness. But Alistair had been here before: he remembered the hidden paths Morrigan had taken when she'd led Solona and him through these wilds to her mother's hut.

That hut was the closest shelter Alistair knew.

_Where is it? _Alistair peered blearily through the swirling fog. _We should've reached it by now._ His mind was sluggish with exhaustion, just as his arms were weighed down by a comatose man.

_Ah-ha! _At last, from under heavy eyelids, Alistair glimpsed a small patch of ruins, and a crooked hut which leaned against a half-destroyed stone wall, its shape slumped as if it was as weary as he was. The shack looked and sounded rickety enough to tumble down in the next storm, if it wasn't for the wall propping it up on one side and tall trees crowding around it, all of them shielding the shack from the worst of the weather. Or perhaps the hut was held up by magic: there must've been plenty of magic here, plenty of ritual blood and lyrium spilt over this patch of land. For all of Flemeth's wickedness, Alistair had never sensed the faintest hint of darkspawn taint here: not in the land, not in its inhabitants. Apparently she had protected her home every bit as warily as Morrigan had warded her tent, and that protection had lingered even after the old witch's death.

"Hello?" Alistair called out half-heartedly, just to see if anyone else had moved into the abandoned house. Dog barked once, sniffed at the hut, and turned back to Alistair, not paying much more attention to the structure, nor the squeaky door hanging partially off the hinges and swaying in the wind, never quite closing shut.

Alistair hoped that despite the general air of disrepair, the hut would still be sound enough to shelter them from the storms that happened all too often in the Wilds. With luck, it wouldn't be much worse than a barn, and Alistair had learned every trick to making barns livable when he was a boy.

_First things first. _He dismounted by the entrance to the hut and caught Loghain as he slumped off the horse's neck. Alistair sank to his knees under Loghain's weight, settling him outstretched on the ground.

Alistair sat there for a moment, panting, gathering his strength, before standing and approaching the hut as warily as if it were a sleeping dragon. He reached out toward the hut with all of his templar-trained abilities, in case Flemeth had returned from the Fade to haunt the place. Apart from a few creaks from the hut's aged wood as it swayed slightly in the wind, there was no reaction.

_Huh. Nothing. First lucky break I've had in ages,_ Alistair thought, as he turned away from the hut toward the man lying pale and still on the ground. _C'mon, then, Sleeping Beauty,_ he thought with an inward smirk as he bent to grasp Loghain under the arms,_ let's get you inside._

He staggered into the hut, dragging Loghain with him, then heaving him up onto the hut's solitary bed. As Alistair's breathing returned to normal after the exertion, he stretched to work the kinks out of his back, and looked around himself.

Apart from the bed, the hut contained only a few chests - all of which they'd opened and emptied after dragon Flemeth's demise - and some shelves of suspicious ingredients and unidentifiable potions. Grimoires weighted down a makeshift table of boards resting on small barrels. Skulls - maybe darkspawn, maybe human - were covered with waxy drips from burned-down candles. Animal skins covered the walls and floor, instead of tapestries and rugs. Herbs and bulbs and roots hung from the low ceiling all around. Some of the roots looked like dried-out human hands, some of the bulbs seemed half-eaten, but there was a perfectly ordinary braid of garlic among them, as well as strings of deep mushrooms, elfroot and deathroot. Alistair would've been heartened to see them, but they were all shrivelled and gray with dust, far too old to be useful. A cobwebbed cauldron hung over the long-cold fireplace. Alistair came closer to peer into it, and wrinkled his nose. Whatever the contents had once been, now they were just a rancid black scum. He hastily carried the cauldron outside and dumped it well away from the hut.

The horse looked exhausted as he walked over to remove the saddlebags and unsaddle it. He scratched its forelock and mentally promised it a good currycomb once he'd caught up on some of his own sleep. For now, he just tethered it to a tree, in a grassy spot by the edge of the nearest pool.

The mabari followed Alistair inside, leaving wet muddy pawprints alongside Alistair's muddy boot prints and the drag marks from Loghain's heels. The dog shook the worst of the soil from his thick fur and hopped up onto the foot of Loghain's bed, settling there like a silent, hairy guardian as Alistair barricaded the door.

He looked down at Loghain. The man was shivering and a faint frown creased his brows. Alistair tugged the blanket over him, then bent without much hope to peer under the bed. But then he gave a "Ha!" of surprised triumph and dragged out a second blanket, coughing at the resulting cloud of dust as he spread that blanket over Loghain as well. He rummaged through their saddlebags then held a water skin to Loghain's mouth, trying to get him to drink. Loghain's skin felt clammy and cold, so Alistair tucked the blankets close around him and went off to hunt for firewood.

Outside, the fog had lifted at last, and although it was now late in the day, the sun was much brighter than at noon. It even streamed into the hut through the shutters, lighting up swirls of dust motes as he returned, stacking the driest branches he could find into the fireplace and using some of the ancient, withered elfroots for kindling. The fire smoked at first, but fortunately as it heated, the chimney began to draw properly. Alistair blinked sore eyes at the smoke, sighing with relief as it dissipated. He hadn't slept well for over two days and was more than ready to join Loghain in the Fade.

_I'll wait until sunset, _Alistair told himself. _Who knows, maybe he'll be awake by then._

Loghain seemed stable. And there was nothing else to do but wait.

So Alistair peeled off his own armor and gathered the bare necessities, setting them down by the side of the bed: his sword, shield, saddlebags with potions, and water. Then he pulled the hut's lone chair up to the bedside and finally allowed himself to collapse into it, slumping forward, face down in his tired arms which he propped on the side of the narrow bed. In a last-ditch effort to stay vigilant, he listened for a while, but there was no sound beyond the Wilds' familiar chorus of insects, birds and frogs, so he shrugged his shoulders and stopped fighting his heavy eyelids when they closed on their own.

* * *

Loghain's first thought was: _This is the Calling. _Surrounded by the stony darkness under the earth, as surely as if he was already dead and buried, he strode into the well-remembered tunnels and caverns of the Deep Roads. Searching out darkspawn and death was the last option he had left, the only way to bring his lifelong torment to an end.

But so far he was alone, miles underground, walking with no idea of what - if anything - lay ahead. The taint was faint and uncertain at the very edge of his awareness. Everything else was shrouded in a darkness that loomed ever closer as the burned-down embers of the torch in his hand flickered and failed. As the last flame struggled and died, Loghain's will to go on faltered with it. He was so tired. So tempted to simply rest, and wait for the final darkness to fall. Only his old familiar fallback, anger, goaded him to keep trudging onward. _ No! I'm no snivelling coward, and I'm __**not**__ just going to lie down and give up! Not after everything. Not now._

Loghain's tainted eyes adjusted with inhuman speed to the darkness, aided by the faint glow of occasional lyrium veins in the cave walls, fine as hairs. The Deep Roads felt and looked just the same as he remembered them from his travels with Maric and Rowan and Katriel: with the same dusty cobwebs filling the ceiling vaults and the same distant clicking of spiders overhead. But the last time he had travelled with his two dearest friends, and now he was walking alone toward his death. Such was the inescapable fate of a Grey Warden. Nothing else was in store for him but a lonely, hopeless fight against the darkspawn, against the poison that ran in his veins.

Loghain couldn't do anything about that fate, but that didn't mean he was about to go down without a struggle. Loghain pulled a flint from his pocket, relit the torch, and then did the same as he did all those years ago: he reached up, holding the torch high overhead. The cobwebs above him caught like the driest of tinder, going up with a great rush of flame, and the spiders burned with them. As before, the air was sucked out of the cavern by the massive blaze overhead. Loghain's thoughts swam as black smoke flooded the cave, inevitable, inescapable: as if the burning ceiling had had collapsed on him, entombing him forever.

* * *

Alistair winced and rubbed his face against the blanket; it was damp where he'd drooled on it. The hut's interior was dark; stripes of moonlight spilled past the shutters. _Definitely past sunset, dammit! _Obviously even the dubious comfort of the creaky chair hadn't stopped him from abandoning his guardian duties for longer than he'd planned.

He squinted at the still silhouette of a man with a dog curled up at his feet. In the glow of the fireplace, Loghain looked as pale as death. Alistair reached for him, feeling the cold, clammy skin, the barely-there pulse. _Maker! Please, no!_

_We've come all this way. He can't die now! _Alistair stumbled to his feet and found a candle, held its wick to the coals until it was alight. _I have to do something. But what? _Frantic, he looked at the shelves, at the dry, blackened, plants hanging from ceiling, at the saddlebags at his feet. The dangling, dusty strings of once-magical herbs were beyond saving, and he'd used their own poultices and injury kits on Loghain already, so Alistair went for the shelves, searching, squinting at the dubiously labeled bottles and sacks, rifling through the stash.

_C'mon, Flemeth. You collected all sorts of things. I bet there's something here that could help..._

He found yellowed teeth that looked human, and a roll of snakeskin whose scales spelled out arcane runes. He searched through oily, dusty, broken glass, checking every last shelf for anything that looked even vaguely useful.

At last, Alistair's fingers closed on a bottle that looked promising: as in, its contents didn't look or smell like any poison Alistair knew. They didn't smell like much of anything, at least not to Alistair's nose. The dusty label was hard to read in the gloom, but when Alistair held the candle as close as he dared, he thought the crabbed, faint script spelled out: 'Enlightenment for the Lost'.

_Lost._ Alistair looked from the bottle in his hand to the pale, still body on the bed. Suddenly he was struck by how much Loghain looked like a mage trapped in the Fade... the very mages Alistair had been trained to watch over, and to 'pacify' if they failed to wake from their Harrowing, or if they gave in to the temptation of exploring the spirit realm.

Alistair took one step toward the bed, then stopped dead mid-stride, caught into an agony of indecision.

_What if I'm wrong? Would Flemeth write any label that wasn't a deliberate lie? What if I give it to him, and he... dies? I'd be his killer after all!_

He gave a bitter, hurt bark of laughter.

_Just like I prayed to be, not so long ago. It'd serve me right._

With the deliberation of a soldier stepping in front of an enemy's blade, Alistair uncorked the bottle, brought it to his lips and took a single, cautious sip. He tasted spirits, and herbs, magic and a faint tang of the lyrium that kept templars in servitude to the Chantry for their entire lives: the same fate that Alistair had barely managed to avoid.

_Ugh. I'll count to a hundred, _Alistair told himself firmly._ If it doesn't make me sick - or kill me - then it probably won't do the same to him._

* * *

Loghain hadn't expected to wake, so all he felt was surprise as he blinked blearily at the glow of a campfire that held back the Deep Roads' shadows. When he looked away from that light and saw Maric and Rowan standing beside him, the surprise left him instantly, crowded out by the sweetly painful tangle of emotion that hit him: at seeing the two great lost loves of his life, missed and mourned for decades; and at the sudden certainty that his own life was now over.

The realisation that he was dead seemed a distant thing, unimportant beside seeing Rowan and Maric once more. Loghain was dazed with wonder; he couldn't tear his gaze from them. They were so beautiful, shining in the gloom of that cave. Both were once again in the prime of life, yet there was a wisdom in their bearing, a knowing reminiscence in their expression, that told of the lifetime each of them had lived. Maric was a golden, vital presence, free of the careworn, haggard air of kingship, the creeping spiderweb of silver in his hair. Rowan was heartbreakingly lovely, once more the vivid warrior she was in her youth, not the fragile, feeble shadow the wasting disease had made of her toward the end.

Such lonely, aching years Loghain had endured, once they'd left him behind. Loghain had marched at the head of an army, had taken a wife and sired and raised a daughter fit for the throne, had dealt with the political wranglings of the nobles (Maker damn those self-serving pigs). But he'd fulfilled his roles in life - as General, as husband and father and Regent - solely for the good of Ferelden, not for power or prestige, not even for love. He'd had nothing in common with pretty, delicate Celia, had been all too relieved to leave her behind in Gwaren while he dealt with the bearpit that was the Denerim Court. Of course love had been out of the question for him once Rowan and Maric had died, but Loghain had even denied himself the most basic companionship, the trust of comrades in arms: had held perfectly worthy warriors like Cauthrien at arms' length, had taken refuge from her unspoken offer of friendship - and perhaps more - behind the formalities of command.

It had been a lonely life, of course it had; but it had felt necessary to him. He'd already been luckier than he'd ever deserved: in his youth he'd had not one but two companions by his side, in his heart, and even after he'd lost them both, he'd needed no other. Mourning their loss, remembering their love, had been enough for him.

But now, they were with him once more, and none of those lonely years mattered anymore. Loghain ached with a joy fiercer than grief, as he rose to his feet and stood before them. With his eyes prickling with unshed tears, with a throat too tight for speech, he simply lifted his arms and reached out to them both, decades of mute yearning in every stretch of muscle, in every line of his face.

He wasn't sure if they'd reach for him in return, or if either or both of them would reproach him instead: for Cailan (even though he'd had no other choice) or for another of the many decisions he'd regretted making, in the long years he'd endured without them. But what could be worse than what they'd already been through together, what Loghain had been through alone? Now, even their old shouting matches would be infinitely better than never seeing them again.

"Rowan," Loghain rasped hoarsely: his throat was so tight it hurt to speak, but even that ache was wonderful. "Maric. You waited for me." _I love you._

But he needn't have worried: they closed the distance at once. Maric prowled toward him with his buoyant, vigorous stride, while Rowan simply hurled herself at him, colliding with his side and clutching his waist in a tight grip. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders, and another around Maric's waist, even as Maric's arms slid around his shoulders in turn. Rowan's fragrant curls tickled his nose, and he bowed his head and sank into a kiss as velvety as rose petals, as warm as summer. Then he turned his head, and just that easily, just that naturally, he was caught up into the storm of sensation that was Maric's kiss, the silk of Maric's hair in his fingers, the strength of Maric's embrace: joys he'd never known in life.

The kiss broke and all three of them leaned in, sharing a sigh of utter relief. Maric shook his head. "Loghain, you haven't changed a bit." At Loghain's startled look, Maric gave a quick flash of a grin, "You're still the stubbornest sod I know. You really shouldn't be here."

Loghain heard the words with a painful shock, feeling himself stiffen in their shared embrace. _Not meant to be with them, he means,_ Loghain thought, _Oh Maric, no!_

"Not like that!" Rowan replied as immediately as if he'd spoken his anguish aloud. Her hands leapt to his shoulders and she gave him a short, sharp shake, just like she used to do. Her hair flew about her face as she shook her head vehemently. "You've already spent too long like _this_," she gestured at the gloom that surrounded them, "Shut away from life, alone in the dark with your grief."

"We always knew you'd miss us," Maric gave him one of his dazzling, roguish grins, and Loghain's heart clenched at the sight. "So you didn't have anything to prove." Maric's arms tightened companionably, giving him a reassuring squeeze.

"You shouldn't have denied yourself, love." Rowan leaned her head on his shoulder; he felt her slow, deep sigh moving her against his side. "You've already missed out on so much."

"What did I tell you about stopping to smell the roses?" Maric nudged him, and Loghain snorted his own amusement at the memory.

Their embrace eased, their arms sliding around his body without lifting away as they moved, so that they were both standing before him, arms still loosely wrapped around him and each other. Their expressions sobered, but the gleam of affection was still so clear in their faces, in the lingering drape of their arms, the caress of their hands.

Rowan reached up, cupping his cheek in her palm, so much warmth in eyes as green as springtime. "I love you," she breathed, leaning in against his chest, craning upward so that her every word brushed her lips against his in the sweetest of caresses. "And you'd better believe that, you cynical git, because if you doubt me for a second, the moment you're dead I'm going to kick your arse all over the Fade." She gave him one of her fierce smiles, and he reared back to huff one of his dry laughs, before leaning in to rest his forehead against hers. "So stop martyring yourself." Rowan murmured. "Stop denying the fact that you're still a man with a lot of life left in you."

She gave him a sly smile, spiced with a challenging arch of an eyebrow, before she took a step back, her arms slipping unhurriedly away from his body, and Maric moved to stand before him, his arms wrapping firmly around Loghain's waist, holding him close, so that they could speak eye to eye.

"I love you," Maric murmured, so much joy in that summer sky gaze. "I've loved you ever since I stumbled out of the trees and practically fell into your lap. Ever since the first time you saved my life." Sure, strong hands slid up Loghain's shoulders, up the sides of his throat, fingers spearing into his hair, cupping his head, holding it still, so that he couldn't look away. "I will never stop loving you. I know you well enough to know you'll never stop loving me. And I'll be there to remind you of those facts, you stubborn, self-doubting sod, when fate finally catches up with you. So you don't have to worry anymore, about mourning me, or missing me, or proving any damn thing to me." The hands cupping his head gave it the slightest shake. "So stop hiding. Stop living in the past, because you've still got a future."

Then Maric slowly eased out of their embrace, until he was standing beside Rowan once more. Their forms blurred into light, imprecise through the tears that suddenly filled Loghain's eyes, at the realisation that this blessed reunion was coming to an end.

"Life's too short," murmured Rowan, her soft voice sounding as close as if they were still in each other's arms.

"So _live _it!" Maric breathed passionately into Loghain's ear.

Then their forms were too bright to look at through the tears that spilled hot as lifeblood down his face.

And Loghain was alone once more. Alone in the dark.

* * *

The metallic, mineral taste of lyrium still lingered on Alistair's tongue by the time he'd finished counting to a hundred, but other than that, he couldn't sense any other effects of the potion. _Not poison then, at least not immediate._

Loghain's pale profile looked like a bone carving, his nose and chin casting deep shadows in the flickering candlelight. For a second, Alistair looked at him and couldn't tell if he was breathing at all. Alistair's heart jumped as he searched the taint for Loghain's warmth. It took all of Alistair's mental focus to find that faint, fading spark. _He's __**dying!**__ He'll be dead soon no matter what I do._

_I have to do something! What do I - what do __**we**__ - have to lose?_

And with a final, desperate leap of faith, Alistair uncorked the dubious bottle once more and tipped it over Loghain's lips, pouring the clear liquid past his clenched teeth, making sure it didn't spill down Loghain's jaw and onto the pillow. With bated breath Alistair searched Loghain's face for any signs of a reaction to a potential poison. But there was nothing. The pallor of his face didn't change at all, and neither did the slow pace of his faint, shallow breaths. Alistair waited by the bedside, focusing on all the small signs that Loghain was still a sleeping man, not a dead body.

_Come on, work! _Alistair thought, he pleaded... but for once he couldn't pray. He remembered all too well how cautiously Morrigan had guarded her poisonous concoctions, keeping her work, especially the kind with any magical ingredients or properties, far away from his sparring and training spots, protecting them with rune-covered leathers and safe distance. _If I chant, it just might strip any magic from the potion. So I can't! That potion just __**has **__to work!_

After what felt like an eternity, Alistair decided that Loghain's breathing did seem deeper than before. Was it a trick of the light, or was a hint of colour returning to his face as well? Alistair watched and listened with desperate intensity, but he still couldn't tell for certain.

The candle in his hand flickered, almost used up.

_As far as nurses go,_ he thought bitterly, _any Chantry sister, or even your average barmaid, experienced with drunks, would do better than me._

And so, Alistair did all he could do: he kept on staring at Loghain, and waited for any sign of an improvement.

When Solona was injured he'd let himself be chased out of this very room by Flemeth, by Morrigan. But now, charging brontos couldn't drag him away. The ghost of Flemeth herself could storm down the fireplace, and set the entire hut ablaze with her dragon breath, and it wouldn't matter. Alistair was staying right here by Loghain's side, and watching him for any change.

For better or for worse.

* * *

Loghain was alone. Maric and Rowan leaving him should have plunged him into despair, but the memory of their reassurances glowed within him: that they loved him, that he didn't need to hold himself apart from life to mourn them. Their memory held the fierce, fresh ache of loss at bay.

Then Loghain's solitude was broken by a distant call. It wasn't anything as simple as a voice. It was a faint sense of familiar presence in the taint: a gentle heat, the distant radiance of another Warden's life force. No, not just any Warden: Loghain felt a soul-deep certainty that he'd know this sunlit warmth anywhere. _Alistair! _Loghain's heart leapt with a sharp pang of hope._ Alistair's alive! And close._

He closed his eyes and cast his senses out into the taint, searching. His head lifted and he turned, focusing on that radiated call - worlds apart from the death sentence of the Calling - facing it with the same blind, instinctive certainty that turns plants to face the sun.

_There._ That was where Loghain longed to be. Out of the cold and darkness of his tomb, away from the grief and solitude of his loss. In the living world. In the sunlight. _With Alistair._

That inner glow was a beacon by which Loghain navigated the maze of the Deep Roads. Its warmth eased the soreness in his body as he scaled one punishing upward incline after another.

The journey was a struggle every bit as nightmarish as trying to escape from the Black City itself. There were caves whose floors fell away without warning into treacherous pits. There were rockslides littered with sharp bones of deep stalkers, tunnels whose walls were no longer firm stone well-lit by veins of lyrium; now they were lightless, slimy mud. But Loghain ignored all of these barriers. His attention was fixed as surely as a compass needle on his goal.

That distant sense of warmth guided Loghain without hesitation through a labyrinth that would otherwise have left him lost and stumbling to his death in the dark. He trudged to the peak of one more interminable climb, and rounded a bend to see the finish of all his struggles: a dead end, the tunnel caved in, nothing but a featureless slope of dirt from floor to ceiling. It should have been an utterly devastating sight. But instead he hearkened to the growing sense of life and light now just beyond his reach, and dug into the fallen earth with his bare hands, throwing aside rocks and soil, forcing his arms deep, then his shoulders, striving against the earth with his whole body, feeling it loosen and shift before him, until at last his hands pushed through and broke the surface. He hurled himself into the gap, struggling upward, flinging aside clumps of earth as he exploded into the light of the living world. He drew a deep lungful of the free air and released it in a great shout of triumph, as he hauled himself from the pit in the earth and collapsed on his back on green, untainted grass, gazing up at the endless, glorious sky.

He knew this place. _Alistair's Clearing._ Loghain remembered smiling to himself as he wrote that name on his newest map. Buoyed by that memory, by the triumph of his escape, by the warmth that now felt close enough to breathe its benediction like sunlight on his skin, he homed in on that gentle beacon, like a wanderer lost in the Wilds heading for the warm golden glow of a campfire.

In the waking world, Loghain opened his eyes.

_I'm alive._

He turned his head, and observed a familiar form, slumped and snoring close by.

_And so is Alistair. Alive and well._

Loghain smiled.

* * *

A hand came to rest on Alistair's head, and he woke with a blink. That dream of his youth among the templars still clung to his mind, and he thought for an instant that the Revered Mother had caught him sleeping, face down in a book he was supposed to have been studying. He sighed and buried his face in cloth softer than an ordinary dusty tome's pages, trying to avoid her punishment for laziness for just one more second.

"Get up here," croaked a voice hoarse from disuse. "No point in getting a cricked neck."

_What? _Alistair opened one bleary eye and peered up. … _Loghain? _He jolted up, wide eyes taking in the sight of Loghain moving, looking back, talking!_ Alive!_ "You! You're... _You!_"

Loghain arched an eyebrow and snorted at Alistair's flustered surprise, mouth quirking in an almost-grin.

"Um. Course you are," Alistair muttered in a shamefaced aside. _He's not dying! Oh, thank the Maker! It worked! _Alistair reached out instinctively and stopped himself the last second, his hands fidgeting with the corner of the pillow in nervous excitement, "How do you feel? Are you OK? Do you want a... - anything?"

Eyes as pale as moonlight - uncannily bright in those dark sockets, under those black brows and lashes - glinted in mute amusement. "Peace and quiet," Loghain grumbled dryly, but he still hitched himself over to make space on the bed. The caution in his initial movements faded quickly; apparently his ribs had healed enough not to hurt. "Up here, I said," a hand closed on Alistair's arm and tugged. "You look as tired as I am. Get some rest." The words were harsh, but a smile lingered in that heavylidded gaze, in the curl of a mouth still soft with sleep.

"Huh," Alistair said. "You wanna... oh." He stumbled up from the creaky chair and sat on the edge of the squeaky old bed that looked and sounded about as stable as the rest of the hut. He stretched out cautiously, doing his best to take up the smallest possible amount of space. His stare met Loghain's. His cheek met pillow. "Uh-huh."

The arm that yanked Alistair further away from the edge of the bed was peremptory, even possessive as it settled to rest draped casually over his waist. Loghain exhaled a that's-more-like-it "Hmph," and those pale eyes drifted closed.

Alistair's life - the life of a bastard, practically an orphan, and then of a chaste Chantry man - lacked situations where one would be held while falling asleep. Growing up he was taught that beds and bedrolls were to remain solitary and free of guests, in order to avoid an uncomfortable morning of scrutiny and shame, and even more uncomfortable talks with the Chantry's elders. But as a boy Alistair had slept with the hounds, and even as a man, he was familiar with the comfort of running his fingers though Dog's bristly fur and hiding his nose in the mabari's broad back. Still, deprived of the human equivalent of such interaction, he didn't quite know how to take this, nor what was expected of him if he was to play the role usually set aside for a mabari, at least in Alistair's way of the world. It was all so... odd. Loghain seemed far more likely to hold a dagger in his sleep than his hound, and yet now his arm was slung around Alistair as casually as if Alistair was a mabari pup or a pillow.

_Maybe it's the potion_, he decided. _He does seem a bit dazed, still. But it's so good to see him awake!_

The weight on the bed shifted as the mabari lifted his heavy head, turned up one floppy ear, then sighed and jumped off the bed, making space for the changing of the guard. The hound padded over to the barricaded door, turned three times and settled down again on the floor.

Alistair trusted Dog to guard them both. He burrowed his face into the dusty pillow, stretched on the mattress, thin and lumpy and impossibly comfortable to his weary body, and sighed, and slept.

* * *

_Cold. _Loghain had been cold and alone in the dark - he'd been lost in the Deep Roads and drowned in the foulness of a necromancer's curse and a dead ogre's memories - for so long that even the eternal strategist in him didn't pause for thought. He simply turned to the red-gold glow in his mind: the sun of the living world, a halo of light in cropped coppery hair, a gilding of firelight on muscled limbs. He reached for the warmth, the weight and pulse and scent of life, gathered it to his chest, twined his limbs with it and held it close. Buried his nose in the tickle of hair, the sleekness of skin, and _breathed_.

The darkness and the calls of owls told Loghain that night had fallen hours ago. The breeze coming through the open window smelled of stale water and wet leaves turned to mulch, which told Loghain he was in the swampy lowlands of the Wilds. A candle stump beside the bed, although unlit, still trailed a faint thread of smoke, which told Loghain that Alistair had been doing something that needed light, not long before.

Moonlight shone through the shutters and spilled over the bed and over Alistair's still form. The undisturbed chirping of insects and chorus of frogs, and the quiet in the taint, all told Loghain that the coast was clear. But it was the glow of Alistair's warmth - in the taint and in the flesh, lying relaxed and calm by his side, under the drape of his outstretched arm - that soothed Loghain. To be so close to someone he trusted was a rare treat: it allowed Loghain to truly relax, in a way that was usually impossible for him. He thought back to the last time he'd felt this effortless, natural ease, and realised without surprise that it'd been when he'd slept next to Maric or Rowan during their travels: fellow soldiers who he trusted with his life, and who he knew had the skills to defend his life.

The bone-deep, soul-deep comfort he felt now was nothing like the cloying feather-mattress luxury of his marital bed back in Gwaren: when he'd always been the one to do all the protecting, when he'd never for an instant been able to set aside the burdens of being a husband and a father and a Teyrn. Funny how the titles and roles he'd actually had some skill in, he'd always filled in Denerim: as Ferelden's General, and as the King and Queen's most trusted advisor. Small wonder that his rare visits back to Gwaren had weighed down his soul, like the Chevalier plate had weighed down his body after the leathers he'd worn in the Rebellion.

Now he wore no armor at all. Now there was only the lighter weight of blankets and the soft cocoon of linens around him, and the comforting warmth of a trusted body in his arms.

Lulled by the slow rise and fall of Alistair's breathing, Loghain drifted off into a healing sleep.

No Deep Roads.

No darkspawn.

Just peace.


	12. Sanctuary

**CHAPTER 12: Sanctuary**

Alistair's head was pillowed on a warm, breathing body. Short, coarse hairs tickled his nose. His nostrils twitched. A hazy thought drifted through his still-sleepy mind: _Dog needs a brush._

One eye slowly cracked open, treating Alistair to a blurry close-up of chest hair.

_That's not Dog!_

Alistair froze, eyes wide, heart racing: he was lying right beside Loghain, with the man's arm still draped around his waist. His head rested on Loghain's shoulder, his cheek against taut, warm skin. Alistair gulped, but Loghain's breathing continued in an uninterrupted rhythm, slow and deep, almost snoring. A very ordinary sound, but Alistair was relieved to hear it; he'd spent far too long straining to hear faint, shallow breaths.

Alistair cautiously eased his head up, without daring to move the rest of his body, and peered at the sleeping man. Loghain's eyes were closed, and Alistair couldn't resist a rare opportunity to stare freely. A thin braid trailed back from Loghain's temple, exposing a large, pale ear; tangled hair spread over the pillow. Long, dark eyelashes cast a deep shadow on gaunt cheeks. Alistair's gaze drifted down to the stubble lining the sharp angle of Loghain's chin, the cords of sinew in his neck, the prominent adam's apple and the ridge of collarbones. Alistair's heartbeat picked up, as guilty as if he were a thief: stealing first one glimpse and then another, without permission.

Loghain didn't stir, and Alistair's neck was starting to protest the awkward angle, so he slowly eased his head back down. Muscle padded Loghain's shoulder so thickly it was surprisingly comfortable.

_What's wrong with me? Pillows are comfortable! Not Loghain! _Alistair bolted upright, turning to sit on the edge of the bed. He would've got to his feet, but as he moved, Loghain's arm tightened around him, holding him back. Alistair looked over his shoulder, and saw pale eyes blinking up at him from under heavy lids.

"Um." Alistair felt his face heating up. "Morning," he croaked in what he hoped could pass as a normal tone.

Loghain rumbled. Or maybe he grumbled. Whatever it was, it was low and wordless and grumpy, and it reminded Alistair of a disgruntled panther. The arm around his waist tightened, and Loghain's other arm slid round to join in. Alistair was pulled steadily away from the edge of the bed and gathered close. His back came to rest against a sleep-warm chest, his feet left the ground. Loghain tangled his lower legs with Alistair's, and a pointed nose nuzzled into his nape, ruffling his hair with one last huffing grumble.

Apparently, as far as Loghain was concerned, 'Morning' was something that happened to other people.

It was a clever way to trap a man. Extricating himself from the double weight of blankets and Loghain's limbs would've taken far too much effort. Alistair twisted his neck to look back at Loghain, drawing breath to speak, but his tongue was tangled with so many questions: questions which no longer seemed important.

"I... um..." he stammered, starting to turn in Loghain's embrace, but as he moved his elbow jabbed into the bandages on Loghain's lower chest. Loghain gave a sharp, annoyed grunt.

Alistair winced, horrified. "Ouch! I'm _so_ sorry! Your ribs! You'd think I'd _know_ better! Maker, I'm _terrible_ at this whole -"

Alistair had half-turned to face Loghain, pushing the blankets down as he moved, instinctively trying to check for damage. Now that he was awake and concentrating, he could feel Loghain in the taint. He was no longer a faint, fading spark: now he was a strong, steady warmth, a balm blissful as the sun on Alistair's sore nerves. _He'll be fine in no time. Thank the Maker for Warden resilience._

Alistair's fumbling explorations, his stammered explanations, were met with a determined look, a sigh, a warm hand cupping his cheek and jaw, turning his head even further, and then his frantic apologies were cut off mid-word.

By a kiss.

Loghain.

Was kissing him.

Alistair froze, body and brain, as the kiss engulfed him, like Lake Calenhad when he swam in summer: deep and liquid, warm and overwhelming. A shiver ran down his spine, and all of a sudden the world made _sense_. Everything did: Loghain's hand on his cheek, cradling Alistair's face as if it was something precious; the weight of Loghain's body half-stretched over Alistair's; the way Loghain sighed into Alistair's mouth, quiet, lost; and the thud of Alistair's heart, beating in his throat.

Suddenly Alistair's arms were full of the man, and he couldn't even hold on, couldn't move a muscle, couldn't say a word as the kiss went on. It was slow, deep, the slide of lips surprisingly soft, then the scrape of stubble around his mouth and _…ohhh Maker, his tongue..._

Loghain eased lingeringly out of the kiss, inhaling Alistair's gasp, breathing "Shhh" against Alistair's lips. He reclined back against the pillow. His eyes drifted closed, and there was a satisfied, 'so-there' curl to his lips.

Kiss-reddened lips.

_Andraste!_ Alistair stared. He was vaguely aware of the ragged sound of his breathing, the drumbeat in his chest, the heat of blood in his face. He swallowed down confusion and the foreign taste on his tongue. He forced his stare from that taunting mouth to Loghain's eyelids, the deep shadow of his lashes. "Why?" he croaked.

_Why now? Why **me**?_

Loghain exhaled a huff and those lips curled into a lopsided smirk. One eye opened in a sidelong look. "Why not?" he husked, and that was it.

_Why not?_ In the beckoning silence, the question echoed in Alistair's mind, and he found himself leaning in, mesmerised by the simple sight of Loghain's lips moving. _So close. _Both of them shared breaths now, deep and steady and healthy, when just last night Alistair had strained to hear ragged, barely-there gasps, paralysed by the horrifying fear that every breath he heard would be Loghain's last. But Loghain survived! The joy of the moment was intoxicating, and yet so simple it was pure instinct. _He's alive! We're alive!_

As abruptly as if he'd heard the thought, Loghain's eyes snapped open, transfixing Alistair with a vivid blue gaze. "And someone very wise told me that life's too short."

_Too short. Yes. For two Wardens like us, more than anyone. Not a second to waste._

The intensity and closeness of that stare struck Alistair like a bolt of lightning from a clear blue sky; it electrified him, awoke the sudden urge to do something, anything, _now!_

_Why **not**?_

Alistair closed the last distance between them in a single impulsive lunge, mashing their mouths together in his first attempt at giving someone a real kiss. On the lips. Like _this_. _Maker! _He drew a deep, juddering breath through his nose and tried desperately not to panic. It all seemed so _complicated_: what to do with his lips and tongue, and how to tilt his head so their noses didn't jab and their teeth didn't clash...

_This is **so** important. It changes everything._

Loghain's lips moved in response, slow and deliberate, every tiny movement as sure as Alistair _wasn't_. Alistair panted, dizzy with the eagerness of the challenge, desperate to keep up, to make it as perfect for Loghain as it was for Alistair.

It was so hard... _difficult_, so difficult to think it all through, so Alistair stopped thinking. Instead, he slid his arms around Loghain's shoulders and closed his eyes and inhaled, felt, tasted his way through.

Loghain took over then. His mouth captured Alistair's; his tongue slipped along Alistair's parted lips, slowing the pace. The solid body under Alistair's hands craned up toward him, leaning against him: such an incredible sensation.

Alistair slid his hand up over the taut, muscled mass of Loghain's chest, pressed his palm to the curve of that sinewy neck. His fingers traced the sharp, stubbled angle of that jaw. It was vital for Alistair to learn the texture, scent, and taste of Loghain's bare skin, the shape of his body, the way Alistair already knew the shape of his armor.

By touch. So instinctively that he'd know it anywhere. Even in the dark.

* * *

Loghain had expected more startled, frantic excuses. More shying away. After the rejection at Ostagar, it was clear that Alistair wanted nothing at all to do with_ him _- as a man rather than a Commander - not even the simplest touch. He'd decided that he'd never raise that issue with Alistair again; it'd be pointless to even try.

But then he'd found his way back to the waking world by following the beacon of Alistair's life force. That was hard for even a cynic like Loghain to ignore, especially when the exact same warmth was so clear to him now: in the taint, in the living heat of the body so close to his own, in the welcoming amber of Alistair's gaze.

So Loghain had taken one last chance. He'd reached out to Alistair one last time, by using a much more intimate way to quiet Alistair's flustered apologies than he'd ever risked before.

Alistair's answer already exceeded his most optimistic hopes.

That maddening air of panicked innocence and shocked shame was wonderfully absent. Instead, Alistair's expression was absorbed, rapt: golden-brown eyes wide and intent, his gaze devouring Loghain instead of flinching away. And his touch... Loghain rolled onto his back, sighed and stretched, languid and shameless as a cat, soaking up the slow stroking as Alistair's hands moved unhurriedly over his skin, with a gentle attention that felt achingly like reverence.

It wasn't even done deliberately to arouse, but that didn't matter a damn; arousal was building, purely as a fringe benefit: a slow burn, spiced with the pang of anticipation. Morning erections had become daily problems for Loghain after the Joining, just like a second adolescence. But _this _was beyond compare. Loghain luxuriated in sensation, revelling in the simple fact that for once he had a real reason for the rising ache of hardness in his cock.

Alistair knelt beside him on the bed, drawing the blankets down and away, his gaze focused solely on the body under his hands. His muscled arms reached for Loghain, sword-callused palms sliding carefully over his skin, as if he was moulding the contours of Loghain's muscles, like a sculptor shaping clay. Alistair's touch was gentle, curious, conscientiously avoiding the bandages that bound Loghain's lower ribs, even though the bones barely hurt at all: clearly Alistair's treatment had left them well on the way to healing.

Loghain watched Alistair covertly from under heavy eyelids. He was reminded of the way Alistair studied Loghain's maps by the campfire: with the same fascinated, surprised look of discovery at the spidery, uneven lines of the roads, at the unfamiliar writing. Alistair's fingers traced the raised ridges of old scars on Loghain's arms and chest, as if navigating them would lead him somewhere he actually wanted to go.

No-one had ever paid so much attention to his body, to his scars. To _him_. No-one had studied him before, with such absolute focus.

Ever.

He thought back to the few times in his past that he'd lain with another. Even his married life hadn't exactly been busy between the sheets. The time he'd spent at court, and Celia's reluctance after her trouble birthing Anora, had both seen to that. During his few trysts with Celia, everything had been focused on her pleasure. Even his one, unforgettable night with Rowan had been covert and silent, shrouded in the dark of the Deep Roads.

But now, nothing was as it had been.

_He's **studying **me. As if **I'm **something worth watching._

That thought brought an unique sense of visibility, vulnerability. Loghain swallowed, and hoped that the heat he felt in his face wasn't a blush. _That'd be too bloody ironic!_

Still, he'd never been one to back away from a challenge. Now, more so than ever: now that the two people he trusted the most had given him some very wise advice: _Life's too short. So __**live **__it!_

So he forced down the impulse to shut his eyes to avoid that intent scrutiny. Instead he lay still, stretched out on the bed, basking in a gaze as warm as a sunbeam.

The reddish light of dawn streamed through the shutters, limning Alistair in a rosy glow, gilding his clearly defined muscles, kindling his short coppery hair to a fiery halo.

In that moment, with that beaming smile, Alistair looked like a god in human form, like the fire of the sun made flesh. But as far as Loghain was concerned, Alistair was better than any god or golden idol or distant, burning sun. He was _human_, warm and alive and in Loghain's arms.

Because that was where Alistair wanted to be.

As that realisation sank deep into Loghain's being, it allowed him to set the past aside for the first time, to let his old wounds heal. This was just what he needed after spending most of his life alone and in mourning. This unprecedented treat: the knowledge that this strong young warrior was rapt in contemplation of _him_. The living warmth of his touch was given freely to Loghain, without the pressure of expectations.

Loghain sighed contentment and stretched lazily, arching up into that touch, in mute thanks for the treatment that left once-cracked ribs bearably numb and on the mend. A warm, dark gaze met his, and Alistair gave him a lopsided smile, and a quiet huff of breath, not quite a laugh.

After a moment of shared understanding, Alistair's eyes narrowed in a satisfied, pleased way and he lowered his head, bringing his mouth down to Loghain's neck and simply growing still. It was a moment of immense focus, private contemplation; Alistair's head was bowed like a believer in the Chantry pews, or a Templar receiving a blessing from the Divine.

Loghain stilled too in anticipation, focused only on that warm, maddening breath right in the crook of his neck and shoulder. Then, finally, he felt the heat of an open mouth, the wet slide of lips, right below his adam's apple, and it amazed him that such a simple caress could feel so damn _good_. Loghain's head rolled back and he exhaled a quiet moan, arching his throat up into the sleek, wet strokes of Alistair's tongue. The tiny fragment of Loghain's mind that wasn't lost in the languid sensation of being touched and tasted like that, noted the sweet irony. _When I did the same to him, at Ostagar, it scared him off. But now... _His thought trailed off in a happy sigh and a slow, triumphant smile.

Until that moment, he'd held himself back. Though he'd been basking in the joyous surprise of Alistair's regard and his touch, Loghain's own hands had been clenched in the sheets. He'd tried desperately to restrain his instinctive impulse to return the caresses, in case his touch startled Alistair into sudden, blushing retreat. But when Alistair bent his head to Loghain's skin, and his lips began for the first time to follow where his fingers had led, then Loghain made another leap of faith.

He untwisted his fists from the bedding, and slid one hand up Alistair's arm, pulling him closer, kneading appreciatively at the strong curves of arm and shoulder muscle. His other hand settled on Alistair's thigh, the flat of his palm rubbing the thick sinew in coaxing strokes that drew nearer, with tantalising slowness, to the promising bulge of Alistair's erection.

Alistair panted hotly against his skin, a desperate, wanting sound. The body in Loghain's hands was trembling with tension, every muscle locked hard; then Loghain's fingertips just brushed the line of that hard shaft, and Alistair exploded into movement. He lunged for Loghain with his whole body, falling onto him, his arms sliding around Loghain, his erection pushing hotly into Loghain's hand. He buried his face in Loghain's neck, folded himself fully against Loghain's body, clutched Loghain's back as he ground unselfconsciously, groin-to-groin.

The jagged, uneven thrusts were maddening, teasing, and Loghain growled in triumph and frustration, and rolled Alistair onto his back, feeling every gasp, every shiver in the muscled body sprawled beneath him. He hauled Alistair's shirt up, tore at the laces of his trousers, slid his hands inside and for the first time in his life, touched another man's cock. He closed his fist on the thick length and pumped, slow and tight. Alistair gave a choked, shocked, needful cry; his eyes were so wide, so dark as he arched up into Loghain's hold. For once, the redness burning in that fair skin had nothing to do with shame. Alistair panted and shuddered, lost in need, and Loghain knelt over Alistair and drank in the sight of him: every gasp, every glimpse of that flushed skin offered up so freely for tasting, every bead of sweat on Alistair's face, every desperate clutch of his hands.

Alistair's broken, incoherent whimpers of lust sped Loghain's strokes, until with a snarl he pulled one hand out of Alistair's trousers and tore open his own, hindered as much as helped by Alistair's fumbling hands. He stretched out to lie at full length on Alistair, letting his weight press the other man into the bed. He angled his hips and deliberately ground his own neglected cock against Alistair's, hissing his pleasure at the hot slide of flesh on flesh, before spitting into his palm and pushing that hand between their bodies, gripping both cocks tightly in one fist.

"Yess..." Alistair moved, tried to push his hand between their bodies to cover Loghain's fist. Tried. With their bodies so close, with his weight plastered over Alistair, Loghain could feel the tension turning Alistair's muscles to stone, the steady rocking friction between them. Alistair's wandering hands finally settled on Loghain's back, clutching him close.

* * *

_He's still healing, _Alistair tried reminding himself,_ so I should have been more careful, and he's my Commander, and we're sharing a bed that doesn't belong to either of us, together, and I'm so hard I could burst - he is too, I can feel him against me - and we shouldn't... Oh, there are so many ways this must be bad!_

_So very bad!_

And somehow that thought of_ improper_ and _bad__**wrong**__shouldn't_ only gave Alistair a powerful jolt of guilty, embarrassed _need _and his hands strayed, down, down, down, like lodestone to steel, impossible to lift off Loghain's bare skin.

_...so good!_

Loghain's hair hung down, framing his face. His braids dragged over Alistair's neck like silken ropes. He loomed over Alistair as if they'd struggled and wrestled and Loghain had somehow won, and Alistair had let Loghain overpower him, let Loghain win him over: if not right now then long before, word by word, deed by deed, day by day. And perhaps that was just what had happened, after all: victory in a subtler sort of struggle. Seduction.

And Alistair fell for it with every touch, every breath, every heartbeat: overwhelmed and mesmerized. The lightning-strike burst of sensation every time their eyes met, made Alistair wonder if Loghain could feel his excitement: not just through their bodies pressed together, but radiating from him through the taint.

_So wrong. The taint is a tool to fight darkspawn, it's not for pleasure. Wrong!_

_Wow! _There it was, that word again, that made Alistair's heart race, that brought more heat to his face; and the guilty, giddy _need _flooded him again, like a huge, hot tide; sweeping him away.

_I shouldn't even want him. I should want someone young and pretty and pure and polite and noble and female, because that's how love's always supposed to go. And Loghain's none of that!_

Alistair drew a deep breath, jaw tensing in determination and head lifting to take in the sight of Loghain, and everything he wasn't, and everything he was. _So what? He's better than all that! He's a great warrior and he saved my life and I saved his and I want him!_

Alistair's breath caught as the realisation hit him with all the force of a blow... or a kiss.

_...I can have him! _

Alistair writhed, glorying in the feeling of a hard body stretched over his own. He struggled just for the instinctive joy of testing his strength against a worthy challenge. Loghain's fists tightened their grip; broad shoulders bunched and he lowered his head like a bronto gathering strength for a thunderous charge. Alistair was caught in a blue stare brighter than the forge's fiercest heat.

_Ohhh._

_He's got me!_

Loghain's weight was heavy and comforting, and he was breathing deep, fast. His urgent growl reverberated through Alistair's body, his mouth was hot against Alistair's flushed skin, and his cool, controlled mask was long gone! Both of them were out of control; Alistair had forgotten what control even felt like. It was incredible and improper, and Loghain was his Commander - a fellow Warden, as close as the taint in his own blood, a heat inevitable as the horizon, forever coiling at the edge of Alistair's senses - and Alistair only wanted him more for it. He wanted all of Loghain, right down to the poison in his blood, the darkness and the damage of him: the muscled weight and hard grip holding him down, the cynical mind and bitter tongue and the erection like an iron bar against his own. It was all just another part of the man he wanted to learn: every deviant, daring, dirty, and brilliant side. He needed it all. All of him. _Now!_

_Maker! _Alistair exhaled shakily, staring up in pure amazement as Loghain's fingers trailed over his hipbone. Then the curl of his fist around Alistair's shaft brought a shiver to his skin, a jolt to his senses, and he thought of the Maker no more. Everything else took second place to Loghain's steady, gliding grip, his fiercely triumphant smile, the lightning-flare intensity of eyes in stormcloud-dark eyesockets. From then on it was only Loghain on his mind.

_He's got me. For good._

Loghain was on top of him, heavy and hot, and Alistair wasn't in control at all. Why hadn't he realised for so long that this was what he needed? Why hadn't he known before how wonderful it could be, to let someone he trusted with his life take control of his body? He needed this, exactly this: the freedom of letting go, so unexpectedly powerful, so infinitely intoxicating.

_Yes! He's got me. _

Alistair moved then, his body arching into pleasure, every thrust a struggle, every breath a cry of need. His eyelids fluttered closed and all he saw was pulsing red through his eyelids. Their mutual awareness of the taint enfolded them: they were sheltered from the world in a shared cocoon of warmth. He reached blindly, openmouthed, tasting only Loghain's body, the salt of his sweat as personal and intimate as the hot push of his shaft against Alistair's and - _oh, wow! -_ Loghain's grip felt nothing like Alistair had ever felt before. It was all _so _good, so different, so much better than alone: together, with someone else, with Loghain. With someone Alistair could trust.

_Yes! Oh, yes! Like this. Just like this. Please!_ Eyes shut, lips parted in a breathless cry, arms around another man, every hard thrust gave Alistair just what he'd never even known he needed. Until it was all too much, and the cry tore from him and he caught fire and soared. _YES!_

* * *

Alistair's throat was temptingly within reach, drawing Loghain toward it; he craned to reach it, laving it with licks and slow, biting kisses, revelling in the heat of flushed skin, the salt of Alistair's sweat and the wild drum of his pulse, beating under Loghain's lips. _This_ was what living was all about, this instinctive, earthly need. _This._ As his own lust flared higher and hotter, Loghain panted and growled, openmouthed and urgent against Alistair's throat, rocked by the thrusts of the taut, strong body in his arms. Alistair arched and wailed, and Loghain felt the surge in Alistair's cock a moment before _ohfuckYES!_ bliss blazed in him and he shuddered and shouted and pulsed come onto Alistair's skin.

Loghain rode out the aftershocks that shook them both, then sprawled bonelessly, heaving a sigh of relief deep enough to make his bandaged ribs twinge with a faint reminder of injuries already almost healed. The pang faded swiftly, lost beneath the glow of rare relaxation; he felt as though he wouldn't want to move for a week. It took an effort to pull his hand out from between their bodies, hold it up to his face. His fingers were wet with their mingled come, and that knowledge prompted a satisfied smile. Alistair watched him, his stare dark with the same raw satisfaction. _It looks good on him_, Loghain decided.

Suddenly Alistair reached up and his fingers closed around Loghain's wrist. Alistair tugged Loghain's hand down, and pressed the back of it to his cheek. His eyes closed. He turned his head and then his lips left a warm, gentle imprint against Loghain's knuckles. Only when Loghain ran the fingers of his other hand through the top of that cropped copper hair did Alistair turn back, open his eyes, and let go.

Loghain craned to lick his fingers clean, slowly and deliberately, giving an assessing 'hmm' at Alistair's unfamiliar taste mingled with his. Then he leaned down and shared his discovery, sinking into a slow kiss, stroking Alistair's tongue with his own, in deep wet surges slick with earthy salt. In its strange way, the kiss felt as intimate as their shared pleasure. Loghain drank in the quiet whimpers Alistair breathed into his mouth, and smiled into the kiss when he felt Alistair's hands steal carefully down his back, ever so gradually sneaking lower, coming to a stop at last with the fingertips just barely resting on the upper curve of his arse.

The slowness might've been the last traces of Alistair's shyness. It might've been a tentative first attempt at teasing. Whatever else it was, Loghain found it oddly endearing.

* * *

All those years in the Chantry, Alistair had felt like the outsider looking in. Discarded by his childhood mentor, he'd tried to offer them everything he had, only to feel rejected, inadequate and lost. Now, pinned down under that blue-lightning stare, caught up in that white-fire bliss, at long last he was purified, by a blaze very different from the holy flame he'd wasted years chanting about but never once felt. Now the time for old chants and empty devotions was over, forever. Now he'd been uplifted into new realms of delight he'd never known existed, back when he'd been alone with his only his own thoughts, his own hands.

They'd always told Alistair that the Chant would give him this: a profound, life-changing jolt. But as steady and lifesaving as the verse could be in battle, it had never been this personal, never this human. Never had it touched him this deeply, body and heart and soul.


	13. In the Sun

**Chapter 13: In the Sun**

It was early afternoon when Loghain woke; the sun had moved far enough across the sky to send beams through the shutters onto his face. He blinked sleep from his eyes and took stock of himself. He was warm - a bit too warm, really, enough that he'd started to sweat - and his ribs were a barely-there twinge as he breathed. He was stretched out on his belly. On Alistair. Who was sprawled on his back, spreadeagled and snoring, utterly unselfconscious in sleep.

_He makes a surprisingly comfortable mattress._ Loghain lifted his head from the crook of Alistair's neck and shoulder, and grinned down at Alistair's blissful expression. He peeled himself carefully away from Alistair's body, wincing a little at the way their groins had stuck together, then huffed amusement when Alistair's snores continued unabated.

Loghain stretched and scratched lazily at his ribs, which itched with healing under the bandages, and then he palmed his chin, which also itched with a few days' growth. Now that he was awake - and had no intensely distracting young warrior writhing around and absorbing all his attention - Loghain realised that he really needed a bath. _A shave too. Damned if I'm going to become a Duncan surrogate! _He sneered, as he generally did when he thought of the man he'd always resented: first for stealing Maric away from the throne, then for beguiling Cailan to his death, and finally for being the thoroughly undeserving focus of Alistair's obsession. But for the very first time, Loghain's sneer was tinged with personal, physical triumph. _I bet Alistair's not so obsessed with that bastard anymore, not after this morning!_

As Loghain stood, Dog lolled out his tongue in a huge smile, stumpy tail wagging furiously, but he was smart enough not to bark while Alistair was still asleep. Loghain patted the capering, licking hound with one hand as he rummaged through their belongings with the other. When he'd found the soap, a rag and his dagger, he made for the door, grinning as he watched Dog sneak onto the bed and curl up beside Alistair, while Alistair slept on, undisturbed.

The day was bright and warm outside, unusually so: the Korcari Wilds' typical fog was a gray haze on the horizon, but for now the area around the hut was clear. The breeze stirred Loghain's hair, ruffling the strands as if with an affectionate hand. He turned his face up to the sun and stretched, reaching for the sky, feeling loose-limbed and relaxed. Rejuvenated, in more ways than one.

He unwound the bandages carefully. Under them was a now-dry layer of poultice, which as it crumbled away, revealed bruises: a riot of colour, now faded almost completely, from black to green and yellow at the edges. Brushing off the remaining scraps of old poultice, he shed his trousers and smallclothes, and walked into a nearby pond, soap and rag in hand.

The water in the shallow pool was even slightly warm from the sun, and it was bliss to scrub himself clean from head to toe. He smirked as he washed away the dried, flaky streaks of come that matted the line of hair under his navel; all the while remembering the urgent jolts of Alistair's hips, thrusting along Loghain's shaft, fucking his fist. Loghain's cock stirred at the memory, thickening as he soaped his groin with more than his usual care. _Later_, Loghain thought, savouring the unfamiliar tingle of anticipation. _Soon._

To cool off, he sank to his knees in the shallow water: even then, it only came up to his chest. He had to duck his head to rinse the soap from his unbound mane. Straightening up, he eyed his reflection in the water and snorted at the stubble, before collecting his dagger and soaping his chin and throat.

As he drew the blade across his skin, his mind wandered._ It'll be a relief to get rid of this lot. Maker, it itches! There's a reason I never let it get this long. And in any case, a proper Fereldan ought to have long hair and a smooth chin, like Maric. Alistair should too. Taking after his father would be a damn sight better for him than pining for an Orlesian-raised ne'er-do-well like Duncan._

He rinsed the soap off his face, and peered at his reflection in the pond, feeling his skin for any missed patches. _Since Maric isn't here, it's up to me to set a proper example. _

Satisfied with his shave, Loghain stood up, wringing the worst of the water out of his hair, and turned to walk out of the pond. As he did so, for the first time since leaving it, he faced the hut.

He froze. A chill raced down his spine, and despite the warmth of the day, his skin bristled instantly with gooseflesh. Even the water-heavy hair at the back of his neck prickled.

That hut. He _knew _it. He'd been here. Just once before, decades ago, but that day was etched into his mind like acid.

_Flemeth's hut. _ He'd watched, powerless to intervene, as she'd led Maric across that very threshold, and poisoned his mind with prophecies that left Loghain's bold, blithe friend pale and silent, prematurely aged by dread. Maric had never told him what had gone on inside, and he hadn't had the heart to really ask, not when he could see the effect on Maric of the merest mention of that time, that place. _This _place!

Teeth gritted, he stormed up to that fateful threshold, wrenched the door open, and fixed Alistair with an accusing glare.

* * *

There was one good thing to be said about the time right after the Blight: sleeping in while _not _having darkspawn nightmares was brilliant. It made you feel normal and rested and human.

Alistair hadn't slept in like this for years: not since he was a boy, dozing on sunny summer mornings in Arl Eamon's barn. Alistair used to climb to the very top of the hay stack and dig himself in, unbothered 'til the sun rose above the treetops. The dry, rustling hay smelled sweet, of open fields and herbs and sun and summer, and if Alistair was quiet enough, he could stay up there until supper if he wanted to, or until someone remembered him and they sent a dog out to fetch him.

Now, stretching and turning to face the sunlight, Alistair smiled.

As he turned, his other cheek met something hairy. _Dog? _An odd sense of familiarity dawned. _Wait. Loghain..._

He opened an eye. The bristly fur under his chin was brown with an occasional burr, and smelled of swamp mud. _Dog. _Alistair winced at the hot panting breath in his face and the touch of a cold, curious nose. He lifted a hand to shield himself from eager licking, and squinted at the otherwise empty bed. _Where's Loghain?_

A wet tongue caught him this time, swiping at his chin.

_Ugh. _Alistair pressed his lips together and pulled back out of range of the slobbering, all the while trying to avoid being pinned by heavy paws. "Geroff me," he muttered, shoving the wagging, panting mabari away. "M'awake, see? See?"

Loghain wasn't in the hut, but when Alistair finally focused on the taint, he could tell Loghain was close. The taint felt quiet; Loghain's warmth was steady and untroubled. The sensation reminded Alistair of sunlit, rich brown swamp water, lying calm and flat as syrup, undisturbed by the breeze. It was almost as though Alistair was feeling Loghain's mood: placid and warm as the day.

_Or maybe that's just me,_ Alistair thought, his smile widening as he stretched lazily, enjoying the pull and reach of sleep-warmed muscles. Dog seemed to take his stretch as an invitation and pounced, landing on Alistair's belly and driving the breath from him with an oof. "All right, all right, I'm up, you overgrown pup!" Alistair grumblegrinned. He pulled himself out of his sprawl and tangle in the blankets, rolling up to sit and fumbling to lace up his trousers. He ran his hand through his hair by habit and stumbled groggily about, squinting at the afternoon sun beaming with unaccustomed brightness through the shutters. And just as he rubbed the last of sleep from his eyes...

A sudden, sharp spike in the taint - Loghain's warmth rather than the painful burn of darkspawn - jolted Alistair into full wakefulness. The next instant, the door was flung wide.

"What in the Black City were you _thinking_, bringing us here? Do you have _any idea _what this place is?"

_Loghain!_

Alistair squinted. There he was, framed in the brighter light from the doorway. Furious. Dagger in hand. Dripping wet. _**Naked!**_ Looking less like a Chasind wilder on a rampage, and more like a wet dream. Alistair held his breath and stared at glistening water droplets as they slid over bare skin, tracing the contours of lean muscles criss-crossed with old scars, gleaming watery trails leading his eye down, down to where they dripped off the tip of... _Maker! He's huge! Dammit I don't think even I'm that big, but we'll just have to see for sure. Still, he's not even hard and Andraste I really need to stop thinking and stop looking or __**I'll**__ be hard and and did he say something? He did, didn't he? What..._

"Oh, yeah," Alistair said at last, waving vaguely around while trying his best not to squirm or adjust himself. "This. Place. The hut. Um. Cozy, innit, for a witch's lair? Been sitting empty ever since she died."

"She died." Loghain echoed flatly.

Alistair didn't suppose he could blame Loghain for his skepticism; it probably was pretty hard to believe. Still, this was awkward. Alistair felt like one of the fishermen in the Spoiled Princess, bragging about his latest catch to a hard-to-please crowd of drunks and tavern wenches. 'And the dragon was THIS BIG.' But this wasn't some trivial catch-of-the-day to boast about. The Archdemon wasn't just a trophy, and nor was the Witch of the Wilds. So rather than getting annoyed, he just clarified things. And if he used very very small words and a reeeally patient tone of voice, could anyone blame him? "Yeah, I told you. We killed her. Remember?"

Judging by Loghain's glare, and the way his fist tightened on the dagger's hilt, Alistair's tone hadn't gone unnoticed. "You'd better be right about that. For both our sakes."

"Look!" Alistair took a deep breath and swallowed further unhelpful remarks, like 'Dead is dead, OK?' Instead, he settled for "I can show you where we got her. It's on a bit of a hill out the back."

Loghain stepped back from the threshold, extending one arm in an ironic 'after you' wave.

Alistair stared at him. Then he gulped and managed to haul his stare up to Loghain's face. "Er, you might want to... you know." He waved at an imprecise area below Loghain's waist and then pulled his own belt up. "Trousers."

Loghain grinned evilly. Far from making any move to cover himself, he actually propped his fists on his hips.

The defiant stance positively drew the eye to his outthrust... - Alistair blinked - ...hips. _Yeah, his hips are outthrust too._

"I suppose I wouldn't want to offend dearly departed Flemeth's delicate sensibilities," Loghain drawled.

_The utter git! It's hard ...__**difficult**__ to focus, what with everything right __**there **__in broad daylight, and last time I never really had a chance to get a good look __**that **__far down, and now it's all close enough to __**touch **__and I really really need - to touch... No! Bad! - I need to not __**think **__about that right now!_ He blinked and shook his head to clear it, and looked up again.

Loghain's grin was wickedly teasing: a challenge if ever Alistair had seen one.

Alistair found himself rising to that challenge, in every way possible. Somehow, he managed to keep his gaze on Loghain's face, and actually return verbal fire, giving as good as he got. "Offend?" he snorted. "Ha! You'd be lucky if she let you have your trousers back! Just as well she wasn't around to nurse _you _back to health, like she did to Solona and me after she took us off the Tower of Ishal. She didn't give me back my clothes and armor 'til I asked really nicely."

Loghain boggled. "That's... disturbing on so many levels," he muttered. "I recognised this place, because your father and I met her here once. She left me outside and took Maric inside here alone, _supposedly_ to 'prophesy' to him." The dubious expression on Loghain's face spoke volumes. "Poor Maric was never quite the same since."

_I wonder if she... If Morrigan's my... Eww! Oh Maker! Don't even __**think **__about that! Look, right there. Naked Loghain! Ahhh. Much better! _Alistair copped a healing eyeful, like an especially potent poultice applied right on his near-fatally wounded libido. He sighed relief and stammered distractedly, "So, er, the King too, huh?" Related or not, Alistair still couldn't bring himself to call King Maric anything other than his title. "What with him, and Solona, and me, seems like the Witch of the Wilds lured half of Thedas here..." An odd sense of foreboding struck. _No telling what other tricks she's got up her sleeve. _He shivered and had to remind himself, _There are no sleeves. And even if there were still sleeves, somewhere, their owner's dead and gone, and so are her sleeves! _ "Ugh," he scrunched up his nose and scowled at the memory of how Flemeth had treated him. "At first she was all, 'What do you need your breeches for, boy, you've got nothing an old woman like me hasn't seen a thousand times before,' - and then, wham - 'Supper time soon, lad, count yourself lucky: everyone at Ostagar is dead and darkspawn prey.'"

Flemeth's cruel verdict, delivered in callously casual tones - _ Duncan! - _had sickened Alistair, as fast and brutal as a kick to the gut, had burned his chest like dragon breath, scarring his very soul with loss. He sighed; suddenly the very air of the hut seemed as suffocating as a deep cave, making him long for the fresh air outside. "Well, come on, at least her bones shouldn't spring many surprises on us."

Loghain just nodded grimly. "This, I have to see." He rummaged through their packs, quickly pulled on trousers while Alistair really didn't watch, and followed Alistair out and around the back of the hut.

On the hillside, the dragon bones were half bared to the sun, half buried by the mud and greenery. The path flickered with broken and discarded scale, left behind as insufficient for armor or trade. Alistair followed the vertebrae of the dragon's outstretched neck to the skull, hollowed and washed by rains and winds like a massive boulder. If massive boulders had a bristle of spiky horns or fangs to bare in a wicked sneer.

Dog followed them, sniffing cautiously here and there, as if he too expected the dead dragon to rise up at any moment. He picked a lush, green bush through which Flemeth's tail draped, wagged his own twitching stump of a tail in the air, lifted his back leg, and marked his territory, with a determined bark followed by a swipe of back paws at the dirt.

_Oh well, at least Dog didn't try and eat any of the bones. _Alistair counted several steps from the back of the skull down to the curved path of the vertebrae right before it branched out into the ribcage, and nudged one broken bone with the tip of his boot.

_This is where I got my sword in, and twisted. Turns out dragonbone's tough to crack... I never knew just how tough 'til then. _"See?" he said to Loghain, reassuring himself as well. "Still dead. _All _dead. Just like I said. I got her right here."

Alistair glanced up Loghain, and smiled._ What was I worrying about anyway? With Loghain covering my back, we could conquer so much more than a dragon. _

* * *

Loghain stared at the bone, which indeed showed the unmistakable marks of a sword. _Well I'll be... he was telling the truth after all!_ Then he turned that searching look on Alistair. _Does he mean __**he **__delivered the killing blow? He's got to be pulling my leg! No man that recently out of his teens is __**that **__modest! _

But Alistair didn't look even the tiniest bit smug, or sly. Or boastful, like Cailan would have looked. Instead, Alistair just looked vaguely expectant, as anyone might while waiting for a reply.

At last, Loghain grumbled, "It took you _this _long to mention that _you _killed the Witch of the Wilds?"

"What? No!" Alistair shook his head. "_I_ didn't do it. _We _did! Solona threw every spell in the book at her, and Wynne kept healing us and" - Dog interrupted with a bark - "and if anyone did her in, it was Dog. He got right into her soft underbelly and bit her everywhere. If anything, they finished her off before I ever did."

Loghain nodded, eyebrows arched. _Surprisingly mature for his age._ Though his mood turned sombre a moment later. _If only his brother had shared his attitude toward personal heroics, the poor sod would probably still be alive today._

Alistair bent down to knock on the hollow dragon skull. He startled as a pair of spiders skittered from the eyesockets, and then sighed in relief as they lost themselves in the grass. "Yeah, here's one dragon that won't be swooping down on anyone anymore. And just as well," he declared sagely, "Swooping is bad."

Loghain snorted at Alistair's verdict, but Alistair didn't look his way. His far-away gaze spoke of memories. Loghain studied his expression, trying to decipher the sudden shift in mood. Alistair's mouth thinned into a determined line. "She was wicked strong and fast," Alistair murmured at last, as quietly as if he was talking to himself, "all claws and fangs and fire. Maybe even meaner than the Archdemon, I don't know. Solona would know..." His forehead wrinkled. "I wish I could've been there to slay the Archdemon with her - _for_ her," he stammered out and what followed was a great big sigh. "It was my job."

_Your job? To throw your __**life **__away?_ Instinctively, Loghain bristled. _Not on my watch! _ But Alistair's gaze stayed fixed on the distance, missing Loghain's instant scowl, and Loghain took the opportunity to take a breath, to think. His protective anger cooled as quickly as it had flared; after all, Alistair's attitude was far too easy for him to understand. He winced and shook his head. "As far as I was concerned," he replied quietly, "it was _my _job. My chance to make amends for my folly in trusting Howe. But," he sighed, and it was his turn for his gaze to turn distant, focused on the past, "in the end, Solona's claim trumped both of ours."

* * *

Silence fell after that, and Alistair turned to head back to the hut. He paused and looked back once he realised the sound of Loghain's footsteps had stopped. Loghain was crouched by the dragon's skull, prizing determinedly with his dagger at the base of one of the massive canines. As Alistair watched in disbelief, the socket cracked and with a grunt of effort, Loghain pulled the fang free. It was as long and sharp as a sword: just like the sword Loghain had carried all the way from Denerim. The one he - or someone just as irreverent - had taken from the skull of the Archdemon. He circled the skull, crouched by the other canine, pried it loose with the same casual, poacher's efficiency, as if removing Flemeth's fangs was no more significant to him than skinning and gutting his latest prey.

As if only then sensing Alistair's gaze on him, Loghain looked up. "Do you want any daggers?" He waved at the rest of the dragon's teeth: smaller, but no less pointed, no less sharp. "There's plenty here. It'd be a shame to let any go to waste."

Alistair blinked. This mundane matter broke him out of his thoughts of Archdemon. _Ultimate sacrifice... Solona's sacrifice. Dragons are not a trophy... never a trophy! _

But at least this way, Flemeth's relics wouldn't gather dust on a wall, pointless trophies to puff up some scavenging stranger's self-esteem, and they wouldn't weather and crumble uselessly into the earth either. This way was the only chance that they'd actually do some good.

"Yeah, I think I could use a new one." Alistair knelt beside Loghain, by the boulder-sized skull, working a couple of front teeth loose to see which one would break off first.

The mundane task was oddly freeing. _He's right. We should make good use of what's left of her._

He turned a fang over in his hand, nodding to himself when it balanced well in his grasp. _It might be the right size to keep in my boot._ That idea reminded him abruptly of Zevran, who kept daggers in both boots, up both sleeves and probably in all sorts of other places Alistair really didn't want to think about. He could hear Zevran as clearly as if the elf was speaking right now: somehow that Antivan accent of his made everything he said sound naughty. 'A boot's an excellent place to keep a spare weapon, Alistair. You never know when you need a good blade to get you out of a tight spot. One minute you're walking, and the next: bam, you're all tied up with nowhere to go! They'd take your sword away; it's much too _big _to overlook. But then you could just whip out your dagger, and in one slash you'd find release!' ...Alistair hadn't acted on Zevran's advice at the time. He hadn't wanted to think about being tied up, or about finding release. Not right there, and certainly not with Zevran smirking at him as if he could read Alistair's mind.

Alistair was the one smiling now; he looked up from the fang and turned the smile on Loghain. "Good idea. Thanks for asking." He slid the dagger-sized tooth into his boot.

It was a perfect fit.

* * *

"Some cheese would be nice right about now, don't you think? … Mmm, cheese! I don't mind which kind, anything would do. There are so many different kinds out there: soft ones, hard ones, salty and sweet, fresh and ripe, nutty and funky, yellow and white and blue-vein..."

They were hunting.

Or at least, Loghain and Dog were hunting. Alistair had volunteered to tag along as snare carrier, and eventual game carrier; though so far there was no game to carry, and this was no coincidence. Judging by how Alistair was bumbling about carefree as a puppy and babbling happily at the top of his lungs, it looked and sounded as though his duties consisted of getting in Loghain's way, stepping on all possible dry leaves and twigs (and some impossible ones), and generally making enough noise to scare off every game animal in the Korcari Wilds.

_Just like Maric was, right back at the beginning, when he was still more of a lost prince at heart than a wanted man. Before I taught him the basics of stealth. _Loghain thought back to those early days, when Maric's life had depended on him: the game he hunted, the concealment and protection he provided, and he fought down a smile. Then he fought down a growl as Alistair gave him a friendly nudge._ I suppose it was too much to expect that he'd be as sensible about hunting as he is about combat._

Alistair nattered cheerfully on. "... Just think of it: crusts like smoky red wood or fuzzy white velvet; centers full of holes or almost as runny as cream, mmm! Gooey. And cheesy. And brilliant! Melt in your mouth sort of brilliant. A whole world of 'em to taste." Alistair scratched the fuzz on his chin, and to Loghain's hunger- and taint-sharpened senses even that small scruffle was as loud as a panicked deer fleeing through underbrush, "I don't even know how many kinds I still haven't tried yet. Even the word's brilliant. Just saying it makes you smile, you just can't help it. Cheeeese. See? It's just that good. Like enchantment, only a hundred times better! I even tried writing an Ode to Cheese once, until they told me it was based on the Canticle of Threnodies and that would've been blasphemy. But I was just a boy then, not like now; back then I was always hungry and bored and chatty."

"Stop that!" Loghain hissed, shushing Alistair for the tenth time.

"Hm? Stop what?"

"If you scare off my quarry just once more, I'm leaving you here!"

"Hey, I'm trying to help!"

"Help what? Help us to go hungry? _Shut. Up!_"

Loghain had delivered that exact ultimatum on another hunting trip, long ago. Maric's resulting laughter had driven Loghain to within a hairsbreadth of throwing caution to the winds, wrestling the mouthy sod into the bushes, tying him up and leaving him as bait for whatever wild beasts should wander by. That would've shown the bratty princeling that Loghain meant business!

But Maric had to acquire some sense of self-preservation eventually - _Better late than never! _- and so, Loghain had held onto the tattered remains of his patience: doing his best to restrain himself from restraining Maric.

Loghain spotted a movement in the grass and nocked an arrow. He'd just drawn to full extension, sighting down the arrow shaft at the hare crouched in the grass, when there it was: eager breath curling in his ear, a single nudge of a heavily-muscled, overly-enthusiastic body against his own, pushing him just slightly off balance. But it was enough, at the critical moment of loosing the arrow, to send his shot wide of the mark.

"Sorry," Alistair husked. It was probably supposed to be a whisper, but it might as well have been a shouted farewell to the hare as it bolted into the distance. Even Dog gave a frustrated bark at their fleeing dinner, before turning to stare at Alistair, and sneezing pointedly.

"Did someone hit you with a clumsy curse, or do you just enjoy getting in my way?" Loghain snapped over his shoulder as he strode over to yank the wasted arrow out of the ground and shove it back in his quiver, "You've been all over me like a rash ever since you got up! Maker's sake, can you stop _touching _me every minute?"

"I'm _really_ sorry, all right!" The sound rang in the air and Alistair looked at Loghain in a wounded, brittle way and lifted his hands in a gesture of surrender, as fast as if Loghain had aimed that arrow at him. "S'just..." He added, softer, "Not much room here, what with the trees and all."

'_Trees', he says. This __**is**__ a forest!_ Loghain boggled inwardly. _This is the last bloody straw!_

He strode up to Alistair and thrust out his free hand. "_Give_ me that!"

"What? Oh," Alistair glanced down at the spidersilk cord dangling from his fist: spare bowstring which Loghain had planned to tie into loops for makeshift snares. "Course! Here!" he exclaimed with what sounded like relief, so helpful and trusting even _eager_ as he handed it over.

"Thank you," Loghain replied with ironic precision, glaring at Alistair without a single glance down at his deft fingers as they sorted out the tangles Alistair had left in the string. Loghain tied a knot, widened it into a noose, running the near-invisible, silvery strand through his fingers, testing its strength, before he abruptly threw the noose over Alistair's head and pulled it tight around his shoulders in one smooth movement, yanking Alistair forward like a leashed mabari.

"Hey!"

_Un_like a leashed mabari, Alistair - stunned and stumbling - went down like a felled tree. He would've hit the ground too, if Loghain hadn't held him up, whipping the bowstring swiftly around both Alistair's wrists and cinching it tight. Alistair's hands bunched into fists, but he didn't struggle, didn't push back, didn't yank his hands out of Loghain's hold. It was damned peculiar, since after all the time they'd spent in combat together, Loghain knew Alistair was as strong as he was.

At last Alistair's wrists tensed, finally testing the bowstring that bound them. He stopped when the spidersilk dug into his bared skin, unprotected by gauntlets or gloves. "Wow. Strong stuff," he said approvingly at last. "That'll, er, show those rabbits what for!" His tone - simple happiness a minute ago - was now breathless and overly-cheerful and maybe just a bit concerned underneath all that nonchalance.

_Good. About time he started paying attention. _Loghain gave a noncommittal "Hmph," and crouched over Alistair, finishing the job. Hogtying a grown man really shouldn't have been so easy. The one time Loghain had tried before, Maric went down spluttering and wriggling, elbowing and kicking Loghain at every opportunity, never giving in even though his long blond hair tangled with the cord, punctuating his struggles with an occasional 'Hey!' or a triumphant 'Aha!' or a wordless yelp of surprise. In the end the devious sod had kneed Loghain in the solar plexus, winding him enough to roll on top of him and give a premature shout of victory. Loghain bucked and threw him off, and they tumbled together head over heels into a muddy ravine, roughhousing and laughing all the way down.

But Alistair didn't fight back at all; he didn't even shout. As the spidersilk stretched around his ankles and back to the wrists, he gave a soft gasp - 'Ohh,' - far too quiet in comparison to his earlier, cheerful chatter. He steadied himself, elbows spread, knees apart, and froze there: so still and so tense, his eyes wide and his breath catching. He stared up at Loghain, cobweb and dew from the grass glinting silver in the short brush of his hair. Even though the bowstring that stretched across his bare chest was taut enough to dent his thick pectorals, the expression in Alistair's eyes as they gazed up into Loghain's, still bore a shocking resemblance to _adoration_.

And then, just when Loghain began to doubt that interpretation, doubt the intensity of Alistair's reaction, he saw Alistair's soft mouth open in a silent pant. A pink tonguetip slipped out to wet his lower lip.

That sight shocked the old, familiar remembrances of Maric right out of Loghain's mind. Instead, more recent memories clamoured for his attention: his earlier encounters with Alistair. Leaving him tied to a tree, that first night, watching Alistair wriggle with something less than absolute determination to break loose. Then, releasing Alistair from that crushing cage of magic, seeing him sprawled in the dirt, panting and overwhelmed, dazed with ecstasy. At the time, Loghain had thought it merely the joy of being freed, but later he'd realised there was more to it than that.

Now Alistair faced him with the same reaction he did then: suppressed, strong _need_. Loghain crouched beside him, leaning forward in fascination, gazing into wide eyes, pupils dark with desire. He was close enough to feel heat from the blush that burned not just on Alistair's cheeks but also his throat and even his upper chest. As if it had a will of its own, Loghain's hand lifted, pressed fingertips to Alistair's flushed throat, needing to touch that heat with his own flesh. Alistair's head fell back and his throat arched into a taut bow, pressing vulnerable skin into Loghain's hand, cartilage bobbing against Loghain's fingertips as Alistair swallowed convulsively. As if Loghain's touch was a spark to kindling, Alistair's whole body began to writhe, slow and sinuous. Every muscle sprang into high relief as he tensed against the restraints, pitting his strength against them, holding back only when the spidersilk began to bite.

It was a most enticing sight, and Loghain growled appreciation, even as he too began to move: tying knots and drawing strands ever tighter around Alistair's limbs. Quiet grunts and gasps of muscular effort - his own to restrain, Alistair's to resist - were the only sounds. Taut, jolting movements - Loghain's arms, Alistair's body - rustled the grass as the last ends of the bowstring were looped and knotted.

When the last knot was tied, Loghain rocked back to crouch an arm's length away from Alistair. He studied the knots with a critical eye, nodding to himself as they held. With a wicked smirk, he reached out, and pulled the dragon tooth from Alistair's boot. "Didn't think I'd forget this, did you?" he purred, twirling it mockingly between his fingers, learning its balance, before throwing it. It hissed through the air then thudded into a treetrunk.

Alistair's stare left Loghain for the first time, flicking to the flash of the flying fang. His eyes narrowed, studying its landing place, sizing up the distance. Loghain had judged the height of the throw very carefully. The dragon's tooth was now quite high for someone lying on the ground to reach, but not _completely _impossible, not for someone as fit as he knew Alistair to be.

_It'll be interesting to see if he takes the out I've just given him. _Slowly, Loghain rose to his feet, standing over Alistair with his fists propped on his hips. A sharp-edged, triumphant grin dawned as he stared down at the man lying bound at his feet. _I know what you crave. _

Alistair looked up at him. Those eyes were so wide, so dark with sheer want. Loghain's breath caught in his chest, as he himself was caught in that gaze, unwilling to resist.

_And why should I? _He remembered Rowan's words to him, that he was still a man with a lot of life left. Anticipation spilled gooseflesh down his spine and thickened his cock. Judging by the flicker in that amber-dark stare, Alistair had a fine view of the latter, from his angle. _Yes, _Loghain thought, looking down as Alistair stared raptly up at him,_ I know what you crave... _

… _so I'm giving it to you. _

There was a rare rumble in Loghain's voice as he asked, "Do you know why I'm doing this?"

Alistair gulped. "...Testing?" he said in a thick voice. "The snares?" The question said clearly that even he didn't believe the flimsy excuse.

Loghain snorted and shook his head, nudging Alistair gently in the ribs with his boot by way of encouragement to "Try again."

Alistair's arms tensed and his fingers moved, trying to reach under the silk binding his wrists, much like a lockpick clumsily thrust into a keyhole. The nudge of Loghain's foot seemed to wake Ailstair's defiant side; his chin lifted and he gave a quick flash of a smirk. "To keep me quiet?" he replied archly, "Well, frankly you've done a rotten job of it. You used up the whole string and I'm still talking!"

Loghain drew a deep breath, strangely invigorated by the sheer ballsiness of Alistair, challenging him while lying helpless at his feet. He raked Alistair's bound body with a deliberately assessing stare, spiced by a lopsided, predatory smirk. "Oh, I don't need to tie you down to stop that mouth of yours," he purred, angling his hips to punctuate the implication behind his words.

"Wellll... like I _said_. I'm _still_ talking." Alistair practically bounced up as he rocked back and forward once: no small feat while bound hand and foot. His mouth twitched and then an impish smile broke through. "So you must _like_ hearing me talk."

_Brat,_ Loghain thought; amused and letting it show, knowing it was the best way to tease back. "Did you ever consider that I might _want _to leave your mouth free?" he parried airily, "So that _you _can learn to govern it?" He left Alistair's side, circled round so that he stood by his feet. "Now," he added in businesslike tones, "I'm going to go and hunt -"

"You're _leaving me_?" Alistair raised his head higher, even though he had to twist in his bindings to do so. "But I thought -" he wriggled and bit his lower lip, giving the bulge in Loghain's trousers a meaningful stare. "- I thought we were done with hunting for the day."

"Oh, you'll find I'm not 'done' with anything I do, until I get what I want." Loghain rumbled. "I should be able to catch enough for both of us -" Dog barked and he snorted, "- _all_ of us soon enough, now that you won't get under my feet."

Alistair's shoulders sagged; his whole posture wilted. "Wait!" he called in a small voice. "I'm still tied up."

"So I _see_." It took an unexpected effort for Loghain to steel himself against Alistair's woebegone look. "_After _I've caught enough, I'll come back. And _if _you've managed to hold your tongue, then you won't have attracted any ...attention while I'm gone." _I'll feel it through the taint, if he's in trouble. Plus, there's always the dagger. And there's not even any echoes of darkspawn around this place. Flemeth probably scared off generations' worth of them. Still, if a rabbit decides to have a nibble of that underbrush he calls a haircut, it'll serve the silly sod right._

"Hey! " Alistair called out after Loghain, a single note of tension - desperation - in his tone. "How long will you be?"

"As long as it takes. Now _hush!_"


	14. Entanglement

**CHAPTER 14: Entanglement**

Alistair told himself very firmly that his initial pang of panic at Loghain leaving without him - an echo of Ostagar, when he'd been unable to to find Loghain on the battlefield or protect him from the worst - had been completely uncalled for. _Really. He's healed enough. _Alistair bit his lip. _I'm being bloody unreasonable_._ It's daytime, not night, and we're not at Ostagar anymore, and I can't feel any darkspawn at all, but I can definitely feel Loghain. There. Strong, nearby. He's fine. I'm fine. Breathe._

He was relieved when the panic eased. But it wasn't long before frustration took its place: the wait seemed like forever. _It's all that contrary sod's fault!_ Alistair wiggled and blew at a grass blade that tickled his nose. To be fair, it was the bowstring's fault too, for making Alistair feel confused and conflicted and so incredibly hot and bothered and frustrated about so many things at once!

_All right. Breathe. I've got to be patient._

Alistair lay long enough on the grass to count every pebble, and even a small pine cone, digging into his side. The blades of grass criss-crossing under his weight must've imprinted against his back just as much as the bowstring dug into his skin. The sweet, watery scent of squashed greenery tickled his nose. He sneezed and wiggled, again, and then tested the bowstring binding his arms and legs and wrists and ankles. It was a very strong string, much stronger than was needed for snaring hares. Though the crafty sods would probably chew through it eventually, Alistair wasn't a hare; he couldn't even turn his head enough, much less reach the nearest knot with his fingers to untangle it.

But that was the problem, wasn't it? Alistair didn't really want to untangle it. The last thing he wanted was for the spidersilk to loosen. Fighting it was just a matter of principle, something to keep him from getting bored enough to actually consider going for that dragon fang. He had to do something to keep all this frustration and need from taking him over completely, so he figured he might as well try and yank the knots to test their strength.

When he pulled on them, he could almost feel the steady pressure of Loghain's hand tightening the cord around his wrists.

Alistair was tapped in the chin by the twin pendants with Andraste's flame which dangled from their cords. It felt like the reprimanding tap of Sister Sarah's bony hand, jolting him out of a happy daydream, bringing his back to dreary reality. _Bad boy! No fun for you. _ Alistair scowled at the memory.

As Alistair twisted and turned, rolling onto his front, arse upward and wriggling in midair as he struggled, it was then that he decided, _Loghain's a bad, bad man. Evil!_ There was no other word for it; what with all that writhing and touching and_ persuading_ to get Alistair to present his arms just so for tying that first knot. Just enough steady strength to get Alistair from 'I like it like that' and 'Should I?' to 'Ohh, dirty_wrong_don't care, want it YESSS!' in a heartbeat, and make him want to to grind against the grass from sheer intoxicating need. All that talk and the promise of more things to come - _Come!_ - was such an alluring thought, and Loghain kept strolling around and showing off, and all the while the teasing sod knew _exactly_ what he was doing to Alistair, he must've known! He _knew_! And even though he knew, he still went off to hunt.

_Loghain left me!_

Just like that.

It seemed like forever. Waiting like this, in the big wide _quiet _Wilds. And staying tied up didn't help a bit. Alistair could hardly move, and every time he did the spidersilk kept digging into him in the most fascinating way, reminding him of all the ways giant spiders trapped their human prey in silk cocoons, bound from head to toe, and the way Loghain kept talking to him about it, and he was hard and hot and bothered and waiting like this took Alistair to the brink of his frustration, enough to prompt a growl. _The teasing sod just _left_ me here!_

Hard.

Helpless... So caught between his need and this restraint, unable to do anything but wait for Loghain.

He knew now that he was at the mercy of a dare, thrown by Loghain's hand and embedded in the treetrunk right _there_, just as his struggle was at the mercy of a strand of spidersilk, also tightened by Loghain's hand. That silk cord was as effective at making Alistair crave all sorts of devious and depraved and incredible things as Loghain's touch had been.

Alistair's traitorous cock carried on responding to _that_ thought as eagerly as to the others and Alistair tested the strength of the bowstring once more and almost moaned in frustration, before he remembered that he had to keep quiet, or Loghain wouldn't come back, not until he'd found enough of his precious game.

That meant yelling for Loghain to come back early, catch or not, was out of question: goading Loghain into action was what had got Alistair into this frustrating mess in the first place. _He'd probably show up, tease me some more, and then bugger off and leave me again!_ Alistair sighed and shook his head, fighting the heat of arousal on his face, and tried to concentrate on the taint and its reliable link to Loghain. But even Loghain's warmth in the taint was muted and still, waiting like a hunter, and Alistair had nothing else to do but struggle against the bonds and try not to think just how much he still wanted Loghain to touch him: everywhere, from the back of his neck to the tip of his cock, which also was trapped in its own way in Alistair's laced up trousers.

Alistair sighed, feeling his own blood hot in his face. He bit his lip. _Focus! _His mind reached for a familiar path to clarity, as if reaching within for the Chant.

_He only thinks he's got me all worked out. Probably thinks I'm going to cut my way out and come scampering after him. Well I'm stronger than that! I don't have to be with him right now! I can be as patient as he is. More patient! I'll give him the surprise of his life. I'll outwait the arrogant sod. I won't give him the satisfaction. It's not like I haven't been tied up by him before. I got out of it the first time he caught me, because I bided my time and waited. I can do it again. I can wait him out. _

_Yeah!_

_Breathe. 'As there is but one world'... and out... 'one life'... and in... 'one death'... and out... _Alistair's body relaxed, letting the slow pace of the most common words of the chant overtake his breathing, and his heartbeat, just as he was trained to do in the very first lesson by the Templars. When he'd first learned that chant, he was alone and frustrated, holding himself back from bolting out of the Chantry doors and past its thick walls, away and forever, outside, into the wide unknown.

The Wilds that surrounded him now were as wide and unknown as it got in the world. _If I wait, this... _he forced himself to loosen his muscles, feeling the tension in the cord ebb in turn, _...is only going to get better. _He smiled. _I can relax and enjoy. _

He pressed his head against the cool moss and took a deep breath of its fresh, earthy scent. He focused on the green smell of the grass and the warm sun on his back and the breeze in his hair and the secure, silken hold of the strands around his limbs. And revelled in it all.

_Breathe._

At last, instead of pointlessly squirming against the restraints or grinding in frustration against the dirt, Alistair relaxed. Curled on his side as comfortably as he could, he pressed his ear to the ground, and listened.

_He'll come back for me, _Alistair thought with calm certainty. _And when he does, it'll be worth it all just to see the look on his face._

* * *

It was endlesssly fascinating to Loghain, how much his sense of Alistair had sharpened since he'd awoken; it had grown even more specific than the earlier closeness that had come from their shared combat. After he'd left Alistair, Loghain had felt positively besieged by waves of outrage and impatience and want and need, radiating through the taint. That had been maddening, but he'd smiled with relief when, after a while, the sensations calmed to a deliberate sense of waiting, spiced with the faintest hint of ...smugness?

Loghain chuckled under his breath at that. _We'll see who laughs last, imp._

_Funny,_ Loghain thought soon afterwards, as he slung a fine brace of fat hares over one shoulder and his unstrung bow over the other, _how much easier it is to hunt, when I don't have a freshly-shagged-and-happy overgrown pup of a man determined to use the flimsiest excuse for physical contact. _

_Even when it involves nudging my bow arm._

_Any archer worth his arrows would agree: nothing touches the bow arm without Consequences._

Loghain's good humour was well and truly restored by the successful hunt, and the far more pleasant sense of Alistair waiting - not entirely patiently - for him. Loghain smiled to himself and gestured to the hound to stay, as he sneaked toward the place where he'd left Alistair, moving with all the stealth at his command. Ruefully, he knew that if Alistair was paying careful enough attention to the taint, then he wouldn't need to hear Loghain to know he was drawing near. But, given how seldom Alistair managed to pay enough attention to the right things, Loghain thought he might manage a bit of a surprise, anyway. _Worth a try,_ he smirked, imagining the look on Alistair's face, as he spotted the man lying on his side, facing away from him.

Loghain stole closer and closer, utterly soundless, and slipped an arrow from his quiver, holding it by the point. Grinning widely, he leaned forward, reaching out to flick the feathery fletching over Alistair's uppermost ear.

"Gah!" Alistair jolted with surprise. The lax sections of spidersilk between his limbs went as taut as bowstring once more as he peered over his shoulder, first at the feathery end of the arrow, then at Loghain. "Oh." An impish grin quirked the corner of his mouth as he turned his head and snapped at the feathery tip like a playful pup. "It's you," he added with a thoroughly fake attempt at nonchalance, "Where'd you come from?"

"Wellll, my mother and father loved each other very much..." Loghain drawled, revelling in the chance to be an utter git. Not content with just verbal teasing, he continued to flick the arrow here and there, random as a gadfly, tapping and stroking the fletching anywhere Alistair's skin was bared.

"Ha!" Alistair eyerolled, then a swipe of the feather on his nose produced a genuine snort, and a flick on his earlobe, a full-body twitch. "Did they now? Ha-how sweet." He writhed, then braced himself against the grass. His lips were pressed together and he was biting the lower one.

"Something wrong?" Loghain inquired, ever so nonchalantly back.

"Not really. 'Cept -" Alistair glanced over his shoulder, angling his chin to point at the restraints holding his wrists together. "Um."

"Hmm?" Loghain tilted his head at the display.

Alistair wiggled his fingers. "... _Well?_"

"Oh, I'm well," Loghain replied expansively, enjoying himself. "I've even _done _well," he circled around the bound man, a swagger in his step, until he stood facing Alistair. He added a teasing "...and you?"

"I'm _very_ well," Alistair mimicked Loghain's airy tone, before glancing over to today's dinner. "Must've been great, hunting, yeah? All alone. All that space. All that quiet. Every animal in the Wilds, just waiting. For you. To come and get them."

Loghain unslung the hares from his shoulder, holding them out in a triumphant gesture. "Hardly every one," he smirked. "Just enough for dinner."

"Riight." Those brown eyes were quite mocking in the right light, just the right match for the brat's impudent tone. "And here I didn't expect you back so _soon_; I was just starting to enjoy myself."

"You were?" Loghain's eyebrows arched; he straightened up, slid the arrow back into his quiver and slung the hares back over his shoulder. He gave a single, sharp whistle and Dog bounded toward them out of the trees. "In that case, I'll stop interrupting and leave you to your..." he paused and gave Alistair a deliberate once-over with his gaze. "...enjoyment."

"Hey-" Alistair exclaimed but held back, biting his lip. Loghain eyed him silently, waiting. Alistair froze in an awkward, silent pause, only his fingers wiggled against the rope at his wrists. He looked up at Loghain and then a daring smirk formed on his lips, "That's not what you said before, old man. You can't be so senile to forget it already."

"Oh, I remember." Loghain paused, stroking the point of his chin, making a bit of a production of Thinking Things Over. "Before I left, you didn't seem as though you'd 'enjoy yourself' that much, all alone. Perhaps that's where I went wrong," he conceded magnanimously. "Perhaps you had just enough _company_, to have 'fun'." One booted foot reached out, hooked a toe in a stretch of cord, and tugged gently, exerting slow, inexorable pressure, watching as Alistair's fair skin went delightfully red with trapped blood - or perhaps with an intensified blush.

He waited... a twitch of limb, a deepening flush and there, suddenly, a gasp. Loghain turned his attention from Alistair's parted lips to his stare. Still impish. Still teasing. Invigorated with pure daring to talk back just because he could. "Maybe I did. And you - ahh - missed it all. See what you get for dragging your feet?" Those parted lips widened in a smirk. "Suppose I ought to be nicer to my _elders_ next time and let you go first..."

Loghain had actually wanted to hold onto the jovial mood. He'd really been enjoying the opportunity to tease Alistair. But the brat insisted on teasing back, even when it was bloody obvious to him - and it should've been obvious to Alistair - what he really wanted all along! It was maddening, and abruptly Loghain had had it! All at once, he closed the last distance, stood over Alistair, glaring down at him, feet bracketing his thighs so he couldn't even wriggle away. "Enough of your games." he growled. _I know what you need. And I know how to give it to you._

"_My_ games?" Alistair exclaimed. "Y'mean _your_ -"

"Stop that!" Loghain snapped, overriding Alistair's protests, leaving him with no more verbal wiggle-room than physical. "You're not fooling me, and I _trust _you're not fooling yourself." He stared meaningfully at Alistair's erection, trapped behind the leather and laces of his trousers. Deliberately he bent down, looming over Alistair, reaching for him. He ran one finger along the rawhide laces that strained over Alistair's crotch, his touch as featherlight as a bard playing on the strings of a harp. He waited. Alistair's trapped length pulsed under the too-light touch, his hips jolted up in a mute plea for more. Loghain gave a sharp, vindicated smile, as he straightened up, and drew his hand away. "You want this."

"So?" Alistair breathed, his body in a tight arch, his cock pulsing after Loghain's all-too-brief touch. "Wouldn't you?"

Loghain ignored the question. He hooked his bowstring fingers into the laces of Alistair's flies, moving carefully to avoid directly touching Alistair's erection. "You want this too," he declared, crooking both fingers, pulling at the laces, drawing the leather of Alistair's trousers tighter across his straining cock.

"Ahh!" Alistair was caught into silence mid-word, as Loghain's ultimatum drove whatever Alistair had wanted to say right out of his mind. Alistair's eyes fluttered shut and his head shook once: it was partly a gesture of denial, partly an animal thrash, instinctive as a horse's headtoss. At the same time, Alistair's hips moved again, deliberately pulling on the laces still hooked on Loghain's fingers, drawing them as taut as the bowstring that crisscrossed his body.

Loghain indulged him for one wonderful, terrible second and then let go, like releasing an arrow, allowing the laces to snap back into place and loosen the imprisoning grip of the leather tented over Alistair's erection. Loghain rose to his feet and took a step back, surveying the beautiful man sprawled on the ground before him, shivering on the brink, almost undone by desire, by need, by firm restraint and the slightest of touches.

"Say it!" Loghain hissed. _High time he admitted to himself what he needs._

Alistair's whole body strained off the ground toward Loghain; he writhed, held back only by gravity and his bonds. His raw gasps for air were loud in the stillness. His stare was dark with want, the exact hue of firelit brandy, but even more intoxicating than even the strongest liquor.

Loghain drank in that heated gaze, and waited until...

"Yess," Alistair breathed at last. "Make me!"

_Oh yes. _Loghain promised himself, promised Alistair._ I'll make you. I'll take you and give you everything you need._

One boot came down, _hard_, close by Alistair's crotch, so close he would have felt the footfall vibrating through the earth into his groin. "You _need _this," Loghain purred, "you filthy boy." He lifted his foot again, with a careful slowness worlds away from the earthshaking stomp of a moment ago. A leatherclad toe nudged against Alistair's balls with the sort of gentleness that deliberately suggested his self-restraint might break at any moment.

There was definitely a visible full body shiver at that. Alistair _writhed_. His knees fell apart, wider and wider, and his face was such a delightful shade of red. Alistair gave a low moan, then turned his head away in a clear attempt to hide his blush.

Loghain snarled wordlessly and lunged, crashing to his knees, crouching over Alistair and gripping his chin in one hard fist so that he couldn't look away, leaning down so they were eye to eye, feeling the hot gusts of each others' breath.

"You _love _this," Loghain hissed. It wasn't a question, or even a statement; it was a verdict. His free hand clamped on the cords crisscrossing Alistair's body, and twisted, hauling him even further off the ground, dragging him closer as Loghain bent his head and claimed Alistair's mouth in a fierce, biting kiss.

Alistair's mouth opened in a gasp in response to those words, or to the twist of the sleek cords. His lips were warm and wet and incredibly eager, as if all that energy fighting his bonds had been saved up and suddenly directed into this: the one thing he was free to do. His teeth tried to catch Loghain's lip. His tongue tried to invade Loghain's mouth, insistent to the point of desperation.

Loghain snorted as Alistair attempted to gain the upper hand, and taught him the error of his ways by simply rearing back, breaking out of the kiss with a proud lift of his head. He hunkered back on his heels, watching Alistair struggle and gasp and crane his whole body for him. Loghain panted, his heart pounding, revelling in the knowledge that _he _had driven the formerly panicked, ashamed innocent to this extreme, by such simple measures.

Now, Alistair was twisted up, angling his face upward, his lips parted and panting, his eyes so wide, so dark and determined, aiming only to reach the unreachable. Reaching for him.

For Loghain alone.

For the life of him, Loghain couldn't resist. His hands strummed down Alistair's body, now caressing fingertips, stroking without rhythm or predictability, now possessive claws twisting and wringing this cord, that loop: pulling the arch of Alistair's sinews ever tauter, like drawing a bow made of straining, yearning flesh. Slowly his hands' meanderings centered on Alistair's groin; one hand dipped in, cupping and kneading Alistair's balls through taut leather. The other hand palmed and squeezed hard at Alistair's trapped erection, before tugging at the laces of Alistair's trousers, pulling their leather so tight over Alistair's thickly swollen cock. Loghain leaned down again, whispering against Alistair's parted lips, without quite closing that last hairsbreadth distance, without quite making it a kiss.

"You _love_ lying here. Stretched out on the dirt." Loghain breathed, his gaze augering into Alistair's wide eyes. The next words fell from his lips, one by one, as heavy as millstones flung into the depths of Alistair's being. "Bound. Helpless. _At my mercy!"_

Alistair's whole body was thrumming all over with tension like a bow on the point of releasing an arrow, so responsive to the lightest stroke of Loghain's fingertips. He wasn't talking now, not a word, just that waiting, hungry, desperate gaze meeting Loghain's, just the hot, uneven breathing, just the knees open so wide, and aimless, needy thrusts, hot and hard, into Loghain's hand.

Just the 'Please!' panted against Loghain's mouth, that one word of confession, of surrender.

Loghain tore the dagger from his boot. One slash, and the laces of Alistair's trousers were laid wide open. His hand slid in, claiming Alistair's cock in a hard grip. His thumb rubbed the slick precome all over the head as he pumped the thick shaft, wringing the pleasure from it in urgent, jagged twists.

Alistair curled in on that one point of contact, his forehead pressing against Loghain's thigh, his mouth open in a wordless shout, until Loghain felt Alistair's whole body shudder against him, felt his cock pulse hotly and spurt into his hands. Over and over and over.

* * *

The hot wet spasms: of pleasure, of need, and_ Please! _and _yes_ and _more_ were still a pulsing heat in his cock, and steady echo in his veins, even through the following calm of blissful relaxation. Loghain's hand was still curled around his cock. _So good._ _Right there. _In a post-orgasmic daze Alistair watched blearily as Loghain's other hand moved. The dagger flicked again, as deft and sudden as before, and the spiderweb of knots and cords that kept Alistair's wrists behind his back fell away.

_Good hand... Good aim._ _Just as good as when he threw the dragon fang into the tree... Any archer as good as him's got a steady hand. And he knew exactly how high to throw it. He knew exactly how to touch me too..._

_He knew... _

Alistair pulled his hands from the mess of cords, and rubbed his wrists. His skin itched and burned with pins and needles as the numbness began to subside. As soon as he felt capable of using his arms, he reached out and slid them around Loghain in a tight, firm hold, burying his face against Loghain's shoulder.

_It all worked out. I should have trusted him earlier._

Lightheaded and relieved, liberated and content, Alistair sighed his joy, unable to put it into words: amazed that this much happiness didn't drown him in its intensity. Sometimes, by fate or luck or the Maker's hand, things just turned out right. There were turning points, perhaps only once in a lifetime: moments when your whole world whirled around you, and nothing was ever the same again. Moments to be avoided: when a Brother became a Templar, bowed his head to the Chantry yoke, drank lyrium and accepted his addiction. Moments to be treasured: when a man became a Warden, swallowed Archdemon blood and was reborn as the ultimate warrior, unafraid of the corruption of the darkspawn, able to slay those monsters as no-one else could.

_Today's like that. A step forward. And I didn't make it alone, Loghain led me to it. He knew this, he knew **me**... better than I knew myself. He didn't laugh or reject me. I'm not sinful. I'm not evil. I'm fine! If he thinks I'm all right this way, then **I am!**_

Loghain's hands were a steady and solid support, and Alistair was precisely where he'd dreamed of being, and he wasn't in any hurry at all to pull back. Life had presented him with a wonderful gift, and he intended to spend all his waking hours treasuring it.

Alistair smiled and reached out, smoothing his hands over Loghain's bare arms. This pure need to hold on and touch warm skin, press his forehead against a curve of strong shoulder and inhale Loghain's scent was intoxicating.

As his slightly-numb and tingling fingers, unusually clumsy for someone who'd squired for others before, wrestled with Loghain's belt buckle, he got a questioning eyebrow.

Tapping into his newfound bravery, Alistair fired back, "Didn't I tell you before, when I lead I end up stranded without any pants..." he gave a cheeky grin, "... so it's only fair that when you lead, your pants are off too."

Loghain snorted, but he didn't do anything to stop Alistair from fumbling open his belt buckle, flicking the leather strap loose, starting to pick at the knotted laces of his flies.

"...I think it's fair at least," Alistair mumbled.

"Oh, given your _vast _experience with leading..." Loghain parried in a teasing drawl.

"Hey, I can lead sometimes! Watch me!" Alistair beamed and craned up to close the last distance between them. He was pretty sure leading involved swooping in and claiming what you were after. _Mmm. Maybe swooping's not all bad... _

_And tongue's probably involved too,_ Alistair thought as he bestowed a exceptionally leader-worthy kiss to the tempting curve of those thin lips. _Yeah. Tongue's definitely good._

Loghain went still as Alistair lunged; his mouth opened to the press of Alistair's tongue, and it felt like a welcome. Then he huffed amusement into the kiss, and took over in a heated return of pressure, slick caresses of tongue and lips, sure and skilled, somehow knowing exactly how to set Alistair's mind spinning: surging for sweet, searching depth, before drawing back to a teasing nibble at his lower lip.

A sword-calloused hand covered Alistair's, which was still fumbling with the laces of Loghain's trousers. "What's 'fair' is an even trade," Loghain breathed into Alistair's open mouth, "I think you should drop your own trou before you start on mine."

Alistair reared back just far enough that he could get a look at Loghain: they were both bare-chested in the warm day, but Alistair's flies were already wide open, his smallclothes shoved down inside his leather leggings for easy access, while Loghain's were still securely laced. So it didn't seem all _that _fair, but Alistair supposed it was the least he could do. He shrugged and pulled at the laces of his boot.

Alistair hopped from foot to foot, wrestling with his boots and socks, all pretense to grace deserting him in his eagerness. The contrast was all the more acute when Loghain briskly stripped out of his own boots and socks in half the time, as unruffled as if all this was completely routine. After Loghain set boots and socks aside he reached out to Alistair, both hands landing on his shoulders, bracing him, just in time to stop him from losing his balance completely as a sock refused to be pulled off. While Alistair dealt with it - muttering curses and threatening to give the stubborn bit of wool to Dog - one of Loghain's steadying hands left Alistair's shoulders. There was an oddly gentle brush of fingertips against the skin over Alistair's heart, and the lifting of a small, constant weight, as Loghain scooped up the twin amulets that had always hung about Alistair's neck, and lifted them over his head and away.

Alistair bowed his head as the cords pulled over his nape, ruffling the short bristle of his hair. It was strange, how significant the absence of those tiny, constant weights felt; the coolness of the breeze around his naked throat; the ceremonial care with which Loghain bent to lay the amulets down on the clean grass, out of harm's way, as if he knew what they meant.

Alistair's toes flexed against green grass blades. His neck felt so odd without the twin mementos: unprotected and bare. Exposed to the world with its cool wind and warm caress of an afternoon sun. Open to the entire Wilds, as Alistair remained there, about to be naked, in the woods, under Loghain's scrutinizing gaze. And yet, he didn't just feel naked. Somehow, not only his neck, but his whole body felt _lighter_, as if he'd been relieved of a burden far weightier than the trivial mass of metal and cord.

The rest was easy; the sliced-open laces of Alistair's flies were no barrier. He skinned down the leather trousers and his smallclothes in one hasty wriggle, kicking them away. Loghain had a bit more trouble; Alistair's fumbling must've tightened the knots in his laces, and Alistair couldn't help but grin at Loghain's grumbled cursing as he struggled, and then grin even wider at Loghain's triumphant "Ha!" as he ripped open the laces and shoved the lot down and off. _He wants this! He wants me!_

Alistair watched as Loghain came closer; that upthrust cock was mesmerising, swaying with his prowling stride. _Wow! He definitely wants me!  
_

Now that Loghain was just as naked as him, it only made sense to reach out, wrap his arms around him and pull him close and tight: fitting flesh against flesh, skin to skin, warm and hard and _yes!_ They were close enough that Alistair could bury his face in Loghain's neck, rub his cheek against all that sharp new stubble and breathe in the clean scent of skin. He felt Loghain's arms closing around him, hard and strong and secure; felt their cocks rub and push, pressed between them. Alistair heaved a great, shuddering sigh, and stilled, just basking in all that weightless, wonderful nakedness. Together.

_Yes. This is just what I've wanted, ever since I woke up._

And how could he not? All along he'd needed this, precisely _this_. He'd craved Loghain's touch all day, badly enough to use every single opportunity to reach out and touch him. He'd replayed Loghain's words in his mind to fill the silence between hearing his voice, he'd reached for Loghain's presence like plants reach for the sun. But now he had just what he craved and he could hold it in his arms: no longer just a fantasy or a wish, but the man himself, warm and solid and real. Now Alistair could indulge the primal, basic urge to get as close to Loghain as two men could possibly be.

His heartbeat was thundering frantically in his ears, and there was a faint but real twinge under his ribs. Alistair had heard of 'heartache' before - who hadn't - but he'd never thought it was anything more than a figure of speech. But that was exactly how he felt: as if the effects of Loghain's touch reached all the way inside him, steadying him, accepting all of him for who he was; as though his heart was cradled in the palm of Loghain's hand.

_Is this what I missed out on with Duncan? No... I shouldn't think of Duncan when I'm with him._ _It's like comparing earth and sky._ Alistair looked up and the sky-blue of Loghain's gaze held such an overwhelming, overpowering depth. These amazing, headspinning rushes of want and need seared through Alistair whenever Loghain was near; every bit of exposed skin drew Alistair's gaze like a magnet and made Alistair's hands itch to touch it. It was why Alistair had found himself leaping to stay in step with every pantherish stride, just so he could walk at Loghain's side, shoulder to shoulder. It was why Alistair's whole being was abandoned to craving, needing; fighting contradictory urges to protect Loghain, to surrender to Loghain, or simply to reach out, bridge the intolerable distance separating them and make their hands, their bodies, their mouths meet, not a second to be wasted apart. Now when all Alistair could do was watch and dream and wish:_ Touch me, please!_

_How could I not see it coming? How could I not know? This need to be with him... Is this normal? It can't be lust. Not like this, not with him. That's not what I feel at all. _The Chantry had told Alistair all about lust: in fact they'd warned him about it, long and loud and often. From those warnings, and his own readings of Chantry and templar books, Alistair knew that lust was an addiction. Privately he thought it sounded a lot like a templar's addiction to lyrium, a fate Alistair had practically thrown himself at Duncan to avoid. _And anyway, what Loghain inspires in me is so much more than mere... urges. Lust is dirty and evil and sinful. But this, what we have, it's so good. It's uplifting and incredible. _

_'You love this'... _The words had echoed in Alistair's mind, ever since Loghain brought the truth to the surface and made Alistair face it head on. _Yes, I do. _Love explained everything so much better than lust. Uncontrolled, untamed lust was a sin and a weakness.

_But_ _how can loving something - truly loving it - this much ever be wrong? _

_How can something like this be immoral when it makes me understand, for the first time, just why Andraste's devotion to the Maker was immortalized in the Chant? If what I feel is even a tenth of what she felt, a thing like this ought to be holy!_

_I trust him with my life._

_I'd die for him._

A week ago he'd never expected himself to end up like this: in the Wilds, near Flemeth's hut, with Loghain, holding onto Loghain. Naked to him in so many more ways than the physical, hiding no secrets, holding nothing back. Alistair would never have believed it. But that was then, and the past was past. Back when Alistair was still determined to reach Ostagar, back when Loghain was still determined to drag him away from his goal. Now, Loghain was_ his _and _here _and _with_ Alistair, and even Ostagar seemed so distant.

_Oghren used to fear falling into the sky... Maker, I know how he felt now, with the world spinning round and round like that, and all around one person._

_Around **him**._


	15. Lampposts in Winter

**CHAPTER 15: Lampposts in Winter**

"You love this," Loghain repeated.

It was a statement of fact, and it was so much more: the barest, barely-believing summary of the wonder laid out before Loghain's eyes, warm and within reach. In his arms Alistair writhed, as responsive as a bowstring under his fingertips. Alistair's desire and trust was offered up all for him, so obvious, unashamed, and sincere, every sight and sigh. Need shone in every sweat-slick line of Alistair's heated body, in every twist of hard muscle and straining limbs.

It was impossible to believe that someone as young and handsome and vividly alive as Alistair could ever want someone as old and bitter and battlescarred as him.

And yet... It was just as impossible to deny the desire in that sunlit gaze, the yearning that stretched every sinew in Alistair's body, sent blood rushing to his face and his cock.

And so Loghain did the only thing that would do justice to Alistair's affection: he spoke the truth, open and unflinching. He acknowledged aloud what Alistair's heated gaze had already declared with such mute eloquence.

_He loves this. _

_**I** love this. _

For one long moment, the world stilled and even the whispers of the Wilds were silent, as if to mark the revelation, to draw attention to here and now and Alistair alone. _Look_, the world said to Loghain, still as a moment between heartbeats, heady as a whisper, steady as a battle drum. _Listen. You have won this. You've won._

And what a triumph it was. Not the 'glorious' public conquest Cailan was so fond of, full of pomp and fame, but a much truer, deeper victory. _Alistair._

Alistair, this lad, this_ man_ - formerly so reserved in all matters of desire - had changed so much. The depth of the transformation was startling. Once, Alistair hadn't even been able to admit to his pining for Duncan, though that had been intense enough to make him flee alone to Ostagar.

Once, Alistair had wanted him _dead_.

Now Alistair gazed up at him, without shame or shyness, and his whole body radiated passion. For _him_.

It was new to Loghain. All too new.

Void, it wasn't as though anyone had ever been willing to _openly_ admit to wanting him, before now. Even Rowan had never made her feelings public, and things with Maric had never gone anywhere near that far. Celia was a cabinetmaker's daughter, pretty and proper, who'd grown up sheltered from the worst of the Rebellion. She'd never been one for baring her heart on an unladylike whim; not one for speaking her mind like Rowan. Celia dreamed of a traditional wooing, with flowers and flowery words, but was too shy to return such overt moves, because that simply wasn't the way courting was done. Nonetheless, for all her insistence on the niceties, Celia was the first woman Loghain had met since Rowan who hadn't seemed too put off by the thought of bedding _him_, and who also wasn't an obvious gold digger only interested in becoming Teyrna.

Settling for Celia had been as much as he could hope for, in the days after Rowan and Maric had wed. But those days were long gone, and the regret of them was so old it had faded to a distant wistfulness.

But this, here and now, was a breathtaking spectacle.

Alistair looked up at Loghain, reverence so clear on his face, and Loghain was surprised by the intensity of that admiration, was stunned by the fact that it was directed at _him_.

_He needs me. He isn't afraid to show it._

It was just as breathtaking as the knowledge that Alistair had deliberately refused Loghain's dare of the dagger placed within his reach. Neither humility nor patience ran in the Theirin bloodline, but Alistair had cared enough to rein in his natural impetuousness and wait for Loghain's return.

What surprised Loghain the most was his own slow, solemn certainty: that the man in front of him would make a better king than arrogant, pampered, self-absorbed Cailan ever would have.

As sure as the beat of blood in his ears, as deep as the heat of arousal in his belly, a thought burned into Loghain's mind branding this moment in time as remarkable. The moment when Alistair Theirin, future king of Ferelden, all youthful eagerness and sunny smiles, embraced Loghain. The moment when Alistair _trusted_ him: enough to offer his body to Loghain's touch; to wait, bound, for Loghain's company; to place himself at Loghain's mercy alone.

* * *

Alistair was giddy and relaxed all at once and absolutely everything was _brilliant_. He basked in this rare, cherished moment of dreamy happiness, floating and hazy and intoxicating, as if he was watching the world filtered through the liquid gold of a glassful of honey mead. The wet wind lifted the small hairs all over Alistair's body, tingling in the wake of Loghain's hands as they roamed over his skin. He and Loghain stood together in the clearing under the sun, not a stitch on Alistair's body, not a scrap of armor on Loghain. So weightless Alistair felt, so free, that his toes barely sank into the slippery moss of the swamp. Thin grass blades tickled his ankles and Loghain's soft breath warmed his cheek, and then... Alistair saw the endless vault of the sky, captured in one man's stare. His world turned around a new axis; the hot hard body under Alistair's fingertips: Loghain, here in his embrace. As Alistair clung to Loghain like a lifeline, and Loghain held him just as close, the thought dawned, dreamlike, in Alistair's mind._ It's all about him._ _It has been all along._

How brilliant it was, this teasing exchange of power and restraint and control, freely given, freely taken. So freeing, because Loghain already knew and set the rules, guiding, daring Alistair to follow his sure, skilled lead. Any touch between them escalated, expanded, became a game and a trade of dares, a surrender and a confession of trust.

Alistair didn't know what to call it, it was all so far beyond anything else he'd ever experienced: growing up as an unwanted fosterling, banished first to the stables and then to the templars. But those dark days were over, and would never come again. This moment was unparallelled. It was so right, this incredible feeling of sharing something, anything at all, with Loghain: equally electrifying whether it was their lips that met, or their hands, or their cocks. Alistair ran his palms up and down the firm cord of muscle along Loghain's spine, and a daring, positively _naughty_ streak in his mind refused to be hung in his thoughts like the hum and crackle of dragonflies' wings over the swamp fog, always by one ear or the other.

_Hey, I wonder if this'd shock him? _Alistair slipped his hands down below Loghain's waist and dared to squeeze Loghain's arse. He kneaded the firm muscle and even used that hold to pull Loghain closer to him, close enough that Alistair could press his cock against Loghain's thigh. That same cheeky, rebellious streak the templars had tried to guilt out of Alistair, urged him to keep going. Alistair grinned triumphantly. The templars didn't care about him anymore, and they would never find him, not here! Here in the Wilds, he never had to care what they thought about him, not ever again. The only person within hundreds of miles who could slap his hand away and give him a lecture, was Loghain._ And if he wasn't shocked before, he shouldn't be now, _Alistair breath caught with anticipation as he searched Loghain's expression. It was hard to read, so close, but at least it wasn't scolding.

Loghain _growled_. Instead of slapping Alistair's hands away, or worse, he ground his hips forward, deliberately rubbing their cocks _oh Maker so hot hard good_. Alistair huffed a breathless pant of laughter, giddy with relief. He was quite sure that Loghain wasn't about to scold him for being bad.

_What was I thinking? Loghain **likes** it bad! He wants more!_

Alistair sunk slowly to his knees in the grass, hands sliding instinctively down Loghain's body as he moved, palms and fingers moulding themselves to muscle and skin, sliding, kneading, caressing. Alistair spoke with his hands, he acted and learned and lived through touch. When he was deep in thought, his hands strayed to the finger-polished runestones in his pockets: one black, one white, so different to look at, but both smooth and solid and comforting to hold. And now he held Loghain, who was so much better than any stone. It felt so perfect, the way Alistair's fingers spread and held close and tight, the way his hands fit just right over warm muscled curves. His thumbs traced the enticing dimples on the sides of Loghain's hips.

Alistair's heart pounded with giddy, guilty glee. _We're out in the open, in broad daylight, for all the world to see, and I'm __**naked**__ and __**he's**__ naked and his cock is right here!_

With an effort, Alistair forced himself to let go of that taut arse. He curled his fingers around Loghain's cock and pumped the heated length, pressed his lips to the beguiling line angling down from Loghain's hip toward his groin. Loghain's breath caught in a gasp, a spasm of reaction that tightened hard muscle all over his body, and in that moment, need struck Alistair. It was an instinct to do things you weren't _supposed_ to do, just because you _could_.

Alistair could eat a bowlful of warm, creamy custard for dinner and nothing else. He could turn his bread-and-cheese upside down, so the delicious cheese was on the bottom, for his tongue to taste first. He could lick a lamppost in winter, because those cautionary tales of your tongue getting stuck were all lies and the universe would never play such a dirty trick.

In any case, Alistair had never before licked a lamppost and it was hard to think of winter while he was so warm all over, and another warm, bare body was so close. Alistair pressed his face into taut muscle and inhaled, nuzzling down until his lips met the coarse hairs trailing down from Loghain's navel, until the man's cock was a hot, hard presence along Alistair's jaw and cheek.

As Alistair took in the scent and the texture, his eyes eased closed to appreciate it all better.

He heard Loghain let out a deep sigh.

_I think he likes it. _

… _I know** I **like it._

Alistair's grin widened. _His cock is right __**here**__, so close I can lick it from tip to base... _

_Mmm. Like a lamppost. _

Loghain's hands moved from Alistair's shoulders to curl around his ears, fingers digging into his scalp, gripping Alistair's hair, which was just long enough to be held now, after weeks of travel. Having his hair pulled reminded Alistair of Loghain exerting slow, delicious pressure on spidersilk bonds. "Yess," Alistair moaned delight as his head was tilted back. He wrapped both of his hands round Loghain's cock, returning grip for grip, pumping fast and hard. Alistair's lips parted as he panted, as he leaned in and fought against the steady hand in his hair and it felt so good. The most vital thing in all the world for Alistair was to try and close his lips around the glistening tip of Loghain's cock, because he needed to prove to himself, to the world, that nothing bad would happen if he took the lead, if he stuck out his tongue and licked something he wasn't supposed to.

He reached, straining, as if craning for a kiss. "Please," he moaned, desperate for anything, and everything at once, and the grip loosened, and suddenly there was the hot, slippery nudge of a cockhead on his tongue - at last! - but then his head was pulled back once more, his mouth empty before he actually could close his lips around it and suck.

His grip on Loghain's cock was one of desperation and need, as he pressed his forehead against Loghain's palm, leaning more weight against that restraining hand, using it to steady himself. Loghain's fingers curled into hair on the top of Alistair's head and held him still, the tip of Loghain's cock bobbed in Alistair's hazy vision, right out of reach of his tongue, dark and red and glistening. Teasing him.

Loghain's hand was heavy and firm over the top of Alistair's skull. His hold was steady and certain, enough that Alistair could abandon the struggle, let his head fall back against that warm, guiding palm, and let go. Let his voice plead for what bullheaded physical force could never win. He had to have it, all of it, had to have Loghain: his hand, his cock, his voice. "I need this," Alistair's lips parted in a breathless chant. "Please!"

"Listen to yourself." Loghain purred. His tone was all gruff appreciation, wry and warm; as good as any praise. "So _shameless_, eager for anything."

"Yeahh," Alistair breathed, "anything," and he meant it. It felt as if the weight of the world was lifting off his shoulders, as if his shoulders had wings to unfold. His lips stretched in a sudden smile. Being shameless together with someone who knew him, knew what he needed, wanted him back, felt so good, so free.

He heard an amused huff of breath. "Anything, hmm? That's a word as wide as the world, and as difficult to map." Loghain's voice was slow, speculative, with a rich undertone of passion. "There must be something specific you want." Loghain's hand slid over his ear and the brush his fingertips made Alistair's skin tingle; he couldn't help but lean into that intoxicating warmth. "So what is it?"

The tip of Loghain's cock was right _there_ at Alistair's lips again, teasing and out of reach. Heavy and glistening-wet and so distracting. "Is it my words?" The low rumble of Loghain's voice hit just the right points in Alistair's belly, triggering a shudder of anticipation. "Is it my touch?" Loghain's steady grip cradled the back of Alistair's neck so gently, "I want to be damn sure to give you precisely what you _need. _And I _know_ you need much more than you would ever say."

_How did he do that? _It was as if Alistair was bound with spidersilk all over and Loghain pulled the one strung up thread on his chest at exactly the right time to send it snapping back to Alistair's heartbeat. Was it the tone of Loghain's simple sincere words, or was it the careful brush of Loghain's thumb just underneath Alistair's chin, that made Alistair's throat so warm and so scratchy? He felt so very vulnerable and yet so very safe. The sheer confusion, the contrast of it, was heady and intoxicating.

Alistair let out a breath; it came out in a choked moan, and he didn't care. He pushed against Loghain's hand on his neck and tilted his head back even more, just to feel the roughness of Loghain's calluses against sensitive skin, the warm palm curving to cup his vulnerable throat. This was _precisely_ what he needed. _This._ To be with someone entrusted with Alistair's every desire; someone whose voice could make his throat so warm and scratchy in a single heartbeat, and then make his heartbeat thunder in his ears until his skin tingled hot with anticipation.

"You're rock hard for it." Loghain's voice in his ears kept him grounded, kept him whole, kept him wanting and craving and breathing to the drumbeat of blood in his ears, the throbbing rhythm of it in his groin. "I can hold you back so easily right now, and just listen to you begging to put my cock in your mouth over and over. Make you wait, make you ask for it, and then -" Loghain's other hand slid up his own cock in a single hard squeeze from base to tip; his fingers gathered precome, smeared it across Alistair's lips. Loghain's index finger nudged into Alistair's mouth and Alistair moaned and closed his lips around it and his eyes eased closed too, giving himself up to the connection, the feeling of heated flesh, the scent and taste and shared arousal. The shared trust.

* * *

Like a wet dream, Alistair was on his knees before Loghain, his upturned, flushed face so obvious with desire. He was so open in his surrender, so eager for Loghain's touch. His neck turned, the beads of sweat glistened at the hot column of his throat.

His lips parted so easily, and his mouth was so hot and inviting, closing around Loghain's fingertip. Alistair sucked pulling Loghain's finger in past the second knuckle, and Loghain felt the bump of Alistair's throat bobbing against his hand. As Alistair swallowed, Loghain could sense the sudden vibration of a moan, as he traced his thumb from the underside of Alistair's scratchy chin, across that bump, to the dip at the base of his throat.

The sudden rush of blood to his cock left him unsteady on his feet, left him wanting to push Alistair down on the grass, hold onto this writhing, welcoming body, take it in a single thrust, and never, ever let go, give this impossible young man exactly what they both wanted! And yet, in his very soul, lived a deeper urge, a calling, to claim Alistair. Like a true king would claim a country - not like those arrogant Orlesian brutes - but strategic, slow, and steady, by committing his most patient efforts to understanding those in his charge, and caring for their needs.

"Keep your eyes closed." Loghain withdrew his finger with a wet pop, Alistair's head tilted, his mouth seeking out another taste. "Can you do that, mm?" Alistair's warm, panting breath was torture to his sensitized cock and another brush of his lips as he made contact would surely be too much.

He needed something else for Alistair to focus on, something to take the edge off the thought of that persistent grip, that impetuous tongue. Because if he had to see Alistair once again, with his mouth so eager and focused solely on Loghain's cock, with those warm eyes wide open and bright and irresistible staring up at Loghain, it would be over far too quickly.

"Take your hand off my cock," Loghain reverted into that simple, familiar mode of giving commands. "Put both hands around your own cock, grip it hard. Don't move them."

To Loghain's surprise and fascination, Alistair obeyed, right away. Only his eyes flicked open, his gaze questioning and intense. What a picture Alistair made. He had the body of a seasoned warrior, skilled and strong; only there was something younger in his dimpled smile, in the endless curiosity of his stare.

Loghain pressed his cock to Alistair's mouth, painting a wet streak across his lower lip. The sight made his knees weak. At that moment, kneeling at his feet, eyes heavylidded in absorption, Alistair was breathtakingly beautiful.

"Now _move._" Loghain husked through a tight throat. "_Only_ as I move. No more, no less." Loghain held Alistair's head back as that eager mouth tried to close around the tip of his cock. "No. Your _hands_. Slowly..." Loghain held his breath as he slid his cock between those soft lips and into Alistair's mouth. "In," he exhaled. "_Oh!_" He didn't know how he got the words out, past the sensation of all the warm heat and the soft tongue lapping at the tip of his cock. "Yes. Just like this. In." He withdrew from warm bliss, trying to concentrate on anything but the maddening sensation of Alistair's breath on his sensitized hard flesh - "And out," - on Alistair's tongue, tasting, licking, it was maddening, his cheeks were hollow as he sucked in just as Loghain pulled back. Pulled out. "And wait."

Alistair understood, judging by the moan that reverberated against Loghain's hand on his throat, as Loghain stopped and waited for Alistair's hands to still as well. On the second thrust, slower than the first, Alistair didn't even try to hurry the pace. Following the nudge of Loghain's hand splayed over his jaw, he obediently, deliberately, matched Loghain thrust for thrust. As Alistair's mouth slid on Loghain's cock, his hands stroked slowly across his own.

"Faster," Alistair exhaled, warm breath suddenly cool as it gusted across Loghain's wet flesh.

"Not yet."

Alistair's eyes snapped wide, fixing Loghain with a vivid amber gaze. Strong hands came up behind Loghain's knee, traced up his thigh. The gesture was defiant; Loghain hadn't told Alistair to take his hands off his cock. Alistair's hold was firm on his hips. Deliberately rebellious, Alistair was pulling him down, pulling him closer, so close he could feel that warm, persuasive whisper against his skin. "Come down here. With me. I want this."

Loghain knew very well that rewarding bad behavior was poor discipline. But there was such fire in Alistair's stare, such eagerness in his grip, such determination in that simple moment of defiance. Here and now, Alistair wasn't a soldier, he was Loghain's lover. Still, Loghain couldn't quite help giving Alistair a quelling stare, even as he contradicted himself by sinking to his knees.

Alistair leaned into him until Loghain let himself fall back to lie on the grass. Alistair's lips, his breath, feathered warmth against Loghain's groin. His wayward hands kept tracing all over Loghain's torso.

No-one else had ever held Loghain like this, with such reverence, such need. Loghain's legs moved of their own accord, adjusting for Alistair's weight. Loghain's hands ruffled and tugged at the unruly mop of copper-gold hair, gripping Alistair's skull, scratching at his scalp.

When Alistair ducked that head to press a wet, eager lick to the tip of Loghain's cock, Loghain's back arched and the ground rose hard against the back of his head, the grass tangling damply with his hair. His view was dazzled by bliss and by sunlit blue sky, and he gasped a breathless, disbelieving laugh. As Alistair started to lick and stroke him higher and higher, he thought, half-dazed, _At least it beats those damn shamed blushes of his!_

Alistair's hand settled over Loghain's wrist, as he lifted it just above his ear. He pressed Loghain's hand back into his hair, fingers sliding between Loghain's knuckles. His gaze was so warm, dark, as he stared up at Loghain. He wasn't blushing. Nor was he cringing or shrinking or fighting shame.

Alistair was so earnest and happy, so trusting and focused. His concentration, his joy, was so strikingly obvious, and the odds of this happening - the odds of _him_ happening to Loghain - was an impossibility in itself. An incredible, unbelievable wonder.

Seeing Alistair so willingly absorbed, Loghain finally, fully allowed himself to lie back, relax, and really enjoy himself. After all, he'd been ...firm with Alistair because Alistair had needed firmness. It was the best reassurance Loghain could give Alistair, that Alistair's own needs weren't shocking or wrong. Now, obviously Alistair had learned that lesson. Now if Alistair wanted to take control - if he was _mad _enough to want Loghain, even for a moment - well, Loghain was hardly mad enough to resist.

It was the old lesson of a life spent at war.

Take whatever joy you can, when and where you can.

If now is good, then live in the now. Tomorrow will come soon enough.

Loghain's eyes closed as unaccustomed pleasure crested higher, catching his breath in his throat: a harsh, fractured sound, almost a cry of pain.

Alistair's pleased, proud hum started in his throat, spread along Loghain's cock, reverberated throughout Loghain's body. Ecstasy crashed down on Loghain and aftershocks shuddered through him as if Ferelden itself was shaking beneath him, as if his bliss had bound them both to this Blighted, beloved land.


	16. Spidersilk

**CHAPTER 16: SPIDERSILK**

_In __which __an __old __haven __is __relinquished __and __new __ones __are __found._

"Mmm, next time, warn me to kneel on a softer patch," Alistair sighed happily. He shifted his leg over Loghain's lap and picked a crusted bit of dirt off his knee, scratching at it.

In the broad daylight, with the open sky above them and the sun-warmed grass at their backs, Loghain wanted to lie back and just bask in the blissful idea that there might be a next time for them, just like this one. "I'll keep it in mind," he huffed, and then added in a tacitly apologetic grumble, "I didn't know. It's not as though I've spent a lot of time in the wilderness without armor. ...Or without trousers," he gave a lopsided grin, "though the blowjob certainly made up for it."

"Huh, so there's a name for that?" Alistair's expression turned a bit rueful, "And here I thought I - _we_ invented it together..."

Loghain gave Alistair a suspicious stare, carefully analysing his expression, just in case he was taking the piss. But that transparently disappointed look convinced Loghain. _'__Invented__' __it __together__? __Maker__'__s __balls__, __but __those __templars __have __got __a __lot __to __answer __for__! _

Alistair frowned abruptly, "...waitaminute, 'blow job'? But I didn't _blow_!" His nodded anxiously toward Loghain's groin. "Did I do it wrong?"

Loghain's bark of laughter, sudden and spontaneous, surprised him as much as Alistair. "Do you really have to ask?" he drawled. By way of mute thanks, he wrapped his arms around Alistair and rolled them over, so Alistair was off that rough patch of dirt he'd complained about.

Sentimental idiot that he was, Loghain didn't even mind being enthusiastically pinned down by someone even heavier than a mabari, rolling around like two Chasind Wilders covered with mud and moss. Alistair's full-body hug knocked the breath out of him, and pressed him squarely against the grassy earth, until he felt every twig and every pebble with his shoulder blades, and then Alistair's mouth descended on his, his lips dry and warm and unforgettable and it was perfection.

* * *

Alistair kept his eyes closed and inhaled lungsful of warm, sunny joy. He used to do the very same thing when he took the first taste of strong mead or an especially fine cheese. As he'd found out, happiness was at times mouthwatering, and at times deliciously forbidden, and always striking in its simplicity. Like a delicious, melt-in-your-mouth, coveted slice of cheese, which Alistair wasn't supposed to have before dinner but had anyway.

They eased out of the kiss and Loghain rolled up to sit, reaching for his discarded clothes. Alistair moved too then, and handed him his bow and quiver, because it was only fair to be helpful to someone who'd made you this happy, and it was the least Alistair could do... _Right__?_ Of course it was right!

After hastily knotting his trouser laces, Alistair scooped up a short length of bowstring that had also been slashed by Loghain's dagger. He stared down at the string; it glinted in his palm, individual filaments finer than hair gleaming silver in the lengthening rays of the afternoon sun. The spidersilk seemed so thin and harmless. But Alistair knew the power of that slender strand all too well. Thin red lines on his wrist were mementoes of where the bowstring had bitten twice into his flesh, almost deep enough to cut. The first time, the sensation had made Alistair rein in his struggles, and the second time, Loghain's hand had twisted the restraints and hauled Alistair's body out of the dirt, raising him up into ecstasy.

Alistair's trouser laces were the worse for wear with their temporary repair, but the length of bowstring was just the right size to loop around Alistair's wrist twice and tie into a loose bracelet. It was the only adornment he allowed himself, apart from the two amulets of Andraste's flame. _Solona__'__s__. __Mother__'__s__. _Twin beats like a heart thudded faintly against his chest with each step, as he followed Loghain back to the hut.

He looked at the string gleaming on his wrist and smiled. _Mine __now__. __This __is __mine __too__._

For the first time, it felt as if Alistair could leave the demons and doubts of his past behind, and walk, unweighted, toward his future: as surely as if he was being led toward it by the steady pull of a single spidersilk strand.

* * *

When they returned to the hut, Alistair brushed down Loghain's horse and led her to a new grazing spot behind the cabin, as Loghain skinned and gutted the hares. Dog wagged his entire hindquarters, capering and licking his chops until Loghain fed him the entrails. Then Loghain hung the meat well above the flames in the hut's fireplace, to cook in the smoke.

The sunset was lost behind a broil of lowering clouds. A storm was brewing, the angry kind that built at night, grumbling and brawling with thunder and wild whirling winds. The kind that struck as sure and sudden as a seasoned battlemage, tearing the steamy skies open: releasing all the heat and the moisture gathered during the day, and unleashing it on the land in whipcrack lashes of lightning and rain.

Dog, well-fed and calm, napped in the corner, his paws twitching occasionally as if he was having a proper run through his dreams.

Alistair sat crosslegged on the floor rugs next to Dog; licking his fingers by way of appreciation of the rest of his supper. Not that there was much left of it.

Loghain smiled as he hooked the spare lengths of his bowstring around a loose nail and began braiding them tightly. A mindless, repetitive task it was, as familiar as braiding his own hair or making snares. The bowstring would have to be waxed afterwards, but for now, two steady hands was all it needed: right string into middle, then left, then right, and again, and again. As he kept his hands busy, Loghain took quiet pleasure in knowledge that all of the creatures he was responsible for, Alistair included, were taken care of for the night.

Alistair finished nibbling on the last of the bones, then set them out on the hearthstone, where the dog would find them when he woke. He licked his fingers clean, then scooted closer to Loghain across the rug covered floor. He put his arms over Loghain's knees, rested his chin over his arms. Looked up.

_Looks __like __not __all __of __his __needs __were __taken __care __of__,_ Loghain mused with a smile. He freed one hand and ran it through Alistair's growing mane, copper-bright in the firelight. Both of them were healed and well-rested; Loghain knew they'd leave this place in the morning. It wasn't as though there was any real reason to stay even one more day.

But just for a moment Loghain wondered how it might have been: if they were free of obligations, if they could stay together in a cabin much like this one, night after night, and let the silence of nature, the simplicity of the hunt and the healing balm of each other's company fill their days, uninterrupted.

All the things they could do, all the things they could _be_ to each other then, without the world intruding... So striking that thought was, so tempting. Loghain suspected that the vision of a quiet, simple life together would fill his dreams from now on, and never mind the fact that it would never, could never happen.

After all, it was human nature to want what you couldn't have.

* * *

Alistair hummed, turning to lean comfortably back against Loghain's shins. He laid out his whetstone and a scrap of fine-scaled dragonhide he used for polishing, and took Duncan's dagger out of his boot. The blade was still dark with the tainted blood which had seeped into the metal, pitting it with rust. Alistair began to stroke the whetstone carefully down the flat of the blade, grinding away the rust stains. Loghain's hand stayed on his shoulder, a solid, warm reason not to move from the spot.

The rhythm of the strokes was steady and measured: a cadence that begged for a slow song. Sad and memorable. Alistair couldn't give Duncan a proper funeral, but Duncan's blades would be clean again. They deserved to be free of the taint's influence, they deserved to shine. Alistair was patient enough to dedicate as many evenings as it took to getting Duncan's dagger and his sword clean and sharp.

Funny how things worked out in life. The same place where he woke up to Loghain, alive, just a few days ago was same exact hut where he heard the news of Solona surviving the night after their impossible rescue from the Tower of Ishal. Many days had passed since, but in the thunder he could almost hear Flemeth's laughter, the harsh cackle of an old woman: 'Shut one's eyes tight or open one's arms wide, either way, one's a fool.'

_Just __who __was __she __calling __a __fool__, __the __mad __old __witch__! _Alistair rebelled inwardly. _I __don__'__t __care __if __it__'__s __foolish__! __The __best __hugs __happen __when __I __spread __my __arms __as __wide __as __they __can __go__, __and __shut __my __eyes __tight__, __so __I __can __feel __everything__._

It was disturbing enough, to think back on Flemeth's spells, all the dangers they'd already faced, the Wilds creeping inside their sanctuary with every screech and howl of the wind, with every echoing thunderbolt. So Alistair began humming over the rising wails of the wind, taking up the rhythm of his whetstone stroking along the blade. "_The __wind __that __stirs__, __their __shal__-__low __graves__..."_

For once, it wasn't the Chant. Instead, Alistair sang one of the ballads of the Grey Wardens: _The __Battle __of __Ayesleigh_, a song as old as the previous Blight. As he worked, patiently restoring the blade to its former bright sharpness, he found that this song was every bit as effective as the templars' scriptures at soothing his mind. The new tune, along with his steady hands, would steadily clean the taint from the blade, though that was a corruption more tenacious than any surface rust. As pleased as Alistair was by this discovery, a deeper part of him wasn't surprised at all.

_"__Heed __our __words__, __hear __our __cry__," _the strokes rang along the blade, measuring the ballad's rhythm, "_The __Grey __are __sworn__. __In __peace __we __lie__..."_

He still remembered Duncan sharing this ballad with the new recruits, at the campfire where everyone except Duncan was still innocent of the Joining. Even then, though he hadn't yet drunk the tainted blood, Alistair was already a part of something greater than himself. He had hung on every word from Duncan's lips, watched every flicker of expression on Duncan's stern face, basked in the unfamiliar warmth of camaraderie, of battle-earned trust.

Now, he kept the simple melody as constant and sombre as a dirge. A farewell dirge it was, for Duncan was at peace now, and Alistair had given his memory the respect it deserved. Now, in the night, surrounded by the Wilds and the storm, was a time uniquely suited for memorial; though Alistair would always remember Duncan. As sure as a blacksmith's hammer shaped steel, the example of Duncan's actions had shaped Alistair's character, had forged his courage and his spirit.

_When __darkness __comes__,  
__And __swallows __light__,_

Alistair knew better than to expect Duncan to rise like an ethereal knight, or even hear the murmur of the melody, wherever he was now. So his song remained a murmured ward against the taint's calling in the dreams of the living.

_Heed __our __words,  
And __we __shall __rise__._

The song was an acceptance and a final note to the elegy that had been beating in Alistair's heart since Ostagar. A sure, solid conclusion. The end to many battles. A goodbye to someone who - Alistair could finally admit it to himself - he'd loved.

_Farewell__, __Duncan__. _

Alistair had needed that closure, ever since it all started. Since Ostagar.

But this was also a new beginning: the legacy of the ancient song, its solemn promise of unity, of companionship, Alistair could now offer wholeheartedly to a new comrade in arms.

Alistair's throat was tight and scratchy and he didn't trust his voice now that he no longer had the song to steady it, but that was all right. Loghain wasn't forcing him to say anything at all.

Loghain's hand rested on Alistair's shoulder, fingers kneading slightly, the warmth and weight comforting and calm. Driven by a sudden need to make contact with living flesh and blood instead of cold, lifeless steel, Alistair turned his head and pressed his lips to Loghain's knuckles.

It was a gesture of thanks, wordless and instinctive and straight from the heart. For all the times Loghain had stood by Alistair, shoulder to shoulder, back to back, covering for him with sword and shield, saving his life so many times that Alistair had lost count. For the way they'd traded thoughts and shared instincts and moved as one in combat, fighting off hordes of darkspawn.

It was a thank you for other things, too. Loghain had had ample time to rake Alistair over the coals for being fool enough to even _want _to go to Ostagar - after all, it was all Alistair's idea - but Loghain hadn't said a single word. Instead he'd gone along with Alistair, all the way down into that Blighted pass: where he'd fought an undead ogre singlehanded, just to buy Alistair time. He'd faced and fought Alistair's worst nightmare with everything he had, and then he _didn__'__t_ die in this hut, in that bed, on that fated night. He'd hung on with bone-deep determination to the last fraying threads of life, as Alistair had rummaged frantically through cobwebbed shelves and grimy bottles, running out of options and running out of time.

Loghain deserved new battle marches and hymns, not memorial dirges as old as the last Blight. But this timeless tune, and the quiet moment afterwards, was only the beginning of what Alistair wanted to share with him.

* * *

When Alistair moved without warning to brush his lips over Loghain's knuckles in a light, lingering kiss, it was all Loghain could do to contain his start, his gasp of surprise. But it would have been sacrilege to shatter the hush of this moment, and so Loghain gentled his movements, restrained the instinctive, possessive clutch of his hand, easing it to a slow brush of fingertips along the soft, sensitive skin of throat and jaw.

Loghain's own jaw clenched with sudden, silent resolve. _The __dead __can __have __their __memorial __songs__. __But __they __can__'__t __have __Alistair__. __Not __ever__. __Not __on __my __watch__._

Alistair's head tilted back, exposing the side of his neck to touch as he breathed a sigh of quiet contentment. The fireplace flame burned steady and hot, painting Alistair's skin in bronze and gold. Loghain brushed his fingers through Alistair's hair, ran his hands down, rubbing, feeling every uneasy knot in Alistair's shoulders.

A tingling knot of something warm - worry or want - coiled in Loghain's belly as well. He leaned forward, reaching for Alistair past the tension in his own stomach muscles. Loghain let his lips just rest, warm, on the curve of Alistair's ear, and felt toned muscle relax beneath his hand. _Good__. _He inhaled; Alistair's hair smelled of the Wilds' pine and of damp rain-soaked leather. "Let's take this off, mm?" he murmured, "Let me."

"Uh-huh," Alistair choked out on two quick breaths and then he was raising his arms, allowing Loghain to lift his shirt over his head.

So many times Alistair had squired for him, taking care of Loghain's armor with a reverent, careful touch. It was time to return the favour. Alistair only had on a linen shirt, but Loghain took as much care with it as if polished ceremonial plate was underneath, and not bare skin.

* * *

They both sat so close to the fireplace, close to the burning coals that breathed heat and flame, but the slow, soothing strokes of Loghain's hands felt warmer than the small, smokeless fire: a welcome sensation stirring Alistair's blood and his thoughts.

Alistair held his shirt bundled over his lap, hiding his growing hardness. He bit his lip, concentrating: it was all he could do not to sprawl in a boneless, shameless puddle on the furry hide rug. Loghain's hands massaged his shoulders, knuckled steadily up and down his spine, chasing tension from his muscles with silent, measured patience, until Alistair felt like he'd forgotten everything except that slow, skilled kneading. Loghain's strong hands were slick against his spine, and Alistair smelled lamp oil and felt pure bliss.

Outside the window, just past the closed shutters, the storm was unfolding, but they were inside, safe and dry and warm. Above the hut, the trees shook at the wind's mercy and shed their frail branches, the roof was pelted by rain like a wooden drum, but the hut kept out the wet and the worst of the wind. The splintery walls creaked and moved slightly all around them, just like a fisherman's boat at dock, riding the waves, weathering the storm.

Alistair held onto the storm's strength and the shared warmth between them and the moment stretched, bright as the dancing lights against the insides of his eyelids, his throat aching like the first deep breath taken after a dive; and knew he was supposed to be here, right here, by Loghain's side, in Loghain's arms.

He turned and reached for Loghain and let his hands slide under Loghain's shirt, around Loghain's body. He leaned up, craning for a kiss, even as his arms tightened their hold, drawing Loghain closer and closer in.

There was no word for this. No name for what passed between them. But without a name, without a ceremony, they shared something together. Sealed by a kiss, as natural as the flames in the fireplace, as overwhelming as the storm outside, it was poignant and it was strong. As everlasting as the night and the storm and the fire. Worth holding onto and worth keeping.

* * *

The wet caress of Alistair's tongue and throat were distant sensations, muffled by the tempest roar of blood in Loghain's ears.

Loghain pushed his hand between their bodies and stroked oil along Alistair's cock. When Alistair moaned and began to thrust into his hand, it was a physical challenge to let go of Alistair, to reach down behind his own balls with his other hand and fumble inexpertly, to stroke oil over skin sensitive and unused to touch. To look at Alistair with an offer in his gaze, of everything he could not say aloud. Loghain rolled deliberately to lie down, and as he stretched out on his back beneath Alistair he had to swallow a sudden knot of nerves in his throat. _I__'__m __far __too __old __for __this__. __Too __damn __old __to __have __any __sort __of __virginity __left __to __lose__!_

But he found his legs eased apart naturally enough to let Alistair's warm weight settle between them. Loghain closed his eyes and held onto Alistair's muscled body, drawing it close; he held his breath as his hips lifted toward that instinctive merging. Then he felt it: tentative nudging against sensitive skin, Alistair's breath hitching in his ear, Alistair's spine rigid as his oiled cock prodded, slid, pushed. Again.

_In__._

They gasped, chest-to-chest as sensation shocked through them both. Loghain panted, struggling to relax around the heated length spreading him wide, forcing down gut-deep unease at the near-painful strangeness of the intrusion. Alistair's head came down on Loghain's shoulder, lips moving against his skin in a near-voiceless pant of "Maker... Maker... Maker...". There was desperation in that sound, and Loghain couldn't help but smile. _Sounds __like __it__'__s __all __he __can __do __not __to __spill __at __once__._

Then with an effort Alistair braced himself on his elbows and lifted his head. Though his whole face was darkly flushed and his pupils were blown wide, the concern in his gaze was even clearer than the lust.

"All right?"

Loghain snorted; he'd certainly lived through far worse. He could put up with this, for the sake of the pleasure that was already burning in Alistair's face. "Of course." He gave a get-on-with-it hitch of his hips. The sooner this deeply personal prodding was over with, the better. At least if Alistair was moving, then the friction of Alistair's belly against his cock would feel good.

Even though Alistair's breathing caught again with that shift of his hips, that worried gaze searched his face for another moment. Perhaps a hint of the discomfort showed in Loghain's expression, despite all his determination to hide it. Or perhaps, Loghain realised suddenly, Alistair could feel an echo of it through the shared shadow in their blood. If so, there wasn't much he could do about it.

Then Alistair's eyes fluttered half-shut as a shudder seized him, and finally he started to move. Still tentative at first, easing forward, as if feeling his way. When he was as deep as he could go, he paused and for a long moment they just breathed, together. Soft lips pressed to his shoulder and throat in openmouthed kisses, as Alistair slid slowly backward. Loghain gasped again, feeling the pull so deep inside, feeling the rough hair of Alistair's treasure trail slide against his cock.

Then Alistair pushed in again, again, slow and careful: maybe to stave off his own climax, maybe to minimise Loghain's discomfort. Loghain tried to distract himself from the penetration, concentrating instead on the friction and pressure on his erection that stopped it from flagging too much, listening to the quiet whimpers of bliss that Alistair was helpless to stop himself from breathing against Loghain's throat.

Alistair groaned and sweat gathered on his skin, making their bodies slide. He propped himself up on his locked arms, the better to pick up the pace. The shift in posture changed the angle and the next thrust shocked a shout out of Loghain.

Alistair jolted to a halt, wide-eyed. "What, did I hurt you?"

Loghain let out an incoherent roar of pure frustration. "Just MOVE!" he cried, "Don't stop!" Whatever Alistair had done, it had been as startling as a lightning bolt of pleasure out of a cloudless sky. Now the sensation was ebbing, and Loghain wanted it back, dammit!

Cautiously, Alistair slid forward, watching Loghain's face all the while.

"Ahh, not quite," Loghain muttered, distracted, rearing up to claw at Alistair's hips and haul them down, as he angled his own hips to meet him. "Again." The next thrust shot fire along Loghain's nerves; his legs tightened around Alistair's body and he bared his teeth in a snarl of joy, "Yesss! There, right therrre..." His voice trailed off into a growl as he ground his cock shamelessly against Alistair's stomach.

An avid grin dawned on Alistair's face. "_Right_, then!" And he bowed his broad shoulders and started to really put his back into his thrusts.

Loghain had resigned himself to enduring an uncomfortable, even painful intimacy, for the sake of creating a special memory: their last night in safety together, before the start of the road back. It would've been worth it. For _Alistair__'__s_ sake. But this... after all these years, at last he understood why a man could honestly want this, not just to please a lover, but to please himself.

Loghain wasn't used to surprises. He certainly wasn't used to pleasant ones, and this one was beyond pleasant. The sensation was so utterly strange. _Liberating__._ He exhaled a ragged sound, half moan, half breathless chuckle, and let himself be carried away by the rising waves of unexpected, unprecedented joy.

They moved together, their bodies fitting together as one; the battle-born familiarity with each other translated to intimacy with such ease. But this was the absolute opposite of war. Loghain ran his mouth over whatever of Alistair's skin he could reach: it was too distracted and gasping to be a kiss, but it gave him Alistair's warmth and the clean salt of his sweat. Without shields or armor or a single scrap of cloth or cord between them, he felt taut muscle working as Alistair moved. Loghain's senses, his body and mind were filled with Alistair: the taste, the scent, the knowledge of this moment, this man, this bliss.

Now that Loghain wasn't hiding discomfort from Alistair - now that he wasn't holding anything back - their shared link flared to life between them, as sudden as kindling thrown on banked coals.

Alistair's mind was as open to Loghain as one of his maps, unfolding at his touch into a world of wonder to explore. All his life Loghain had wanted this closeness, and had known it so seldom. Now he wanted to share it with Alistair and to show him what it was like, what it could be, this physical need, this intimacy as deep as instinct. Without distractions. Given freely. Stripped to the most basic of desires. As simple and as complex as two bodies become one: a Joining in the truest sense.

Now Loghain could feel all-consuming, physical need echoed back to him from beyond himself. But even now, when Alistair's every exhalation was threaded with wrecked, wanting whimpers, the lust that burned through their bond was still intertwined with restraint: all that eager heat was held subtly at bay, as if with silvery strings, thin but unyielding. It was not the restraint itself that surprised Loghain, given Alistair's earlier concern, but now Loghain could also sense the underlying reason for that restraint, and that reason surprised him, very much. It was Alistair's protectiveness - protectiveness for _him_ - tender and cautious and strong as spidersilk.

And above and beyond that protectiveness was a sense of trust. As incredible as Loghain might once have found it, there it was: utterly open, unmistakeable as the sun. A trust that was Alistair's response to Loghain's lowering a lifetime of defenses, offering his body and his mind to an act of unprecedented intimacy.

As he felt his own surprise, there was an answering flash of amazement in the taint, at having that trust reciprocated.

_Alistair __felt __it __too __then__... __He __knows__. __Alistair __knows __**me**__. __He __trusts __**me**__. __He __needs __**me**__._

Such pure truth was overwhelming in its simple, sunny, elated joy. Nothing else mattered. As his body shuddered giving into pleasure, Loghain too was lost in shared bliss.

_Alistair__!_

* * *

The firelight flickered, tangled like liquid gold in Loghain's barely-open eyes. In the breath-quiet stillness between them, Loghain felt wrung out, empty, and purified by that emptiness. Nothing remained: nothing in his ears but his own heartbeat and Alistair's soft sigh, nothing on his lips but a lingering kiss, and heat, and need for each other.

Loghain blinked his eyes further open, and felt his lips curving unbidden into a sated smile. "You're a sight." Loghain husked. "Unrestrained..."

"Yeah?" Alistair's head tilted back and he eyed Loghain with a soft, dark gaze.

Alistair's hands were free, and Loghain wanted it this way, wanted them like this, bound by neither physical hold nor obligation, only need for each other.

"Yes," Loghain exhaled against a hard chest, ran his fingers up a toned bicep. "Just like this." He placed his hands on Alistair's shoulders and met that fond look with one of his wry, lopsided smiles.

They curled up together, naked and warm, bodies entwined beside the fire like a knot: Loghain's arms tight around Alistair, Alistair's hands in Loghain's tousled hair. Blunt fingers sifted carefully through the tangled mane, retwining one half-wrecked braid.

Even now, Loghain was so unused to any form of gentle touch. He'd stayed away too long from Gwaren, from any possible affection. Not even when he'd awoken from the deadly fever of the Joining had he been spared so much as a Healer's attention. Alistair's brawny hand could never be mistaken for a Healer's, but by now it was familiar: from the sword calluses on fingers and palm, to the freckles and veins on the back, to the spidersilk from Loghain's bow still looped around Alistair's wrist. And it was that hand that Loghain had allowed to touch him, and in return he now found himself touched indeed. Undone, unravelled, then twisted together again: perhaps into something slightly different from his old self, closer to someone he wanted to be.

* * *

Through the warm, fiery haze, Alistair felt Loghain's steady arms, lifting him, moving them toward the bed. The cotton of the pillow was soft and cool and Alistair sighed happily as Loghain settled into the bed as well and pulled the blankets over them.

The brush of hair against his cheek and the touch of lips to his in the dark was so soft, Alistair almost thought he'd dreamed it.

He awoke alone, with Loghain already up and packing the saddlebags for the long day's journey ahead, and it was such a silly thing to question a good night's kiss in bright sunlight, after they'd shared so much more than a kiss together last night.

So instead he pulled on his clothes, finished packing his backpack, then helped Loghain pile their belongings on his horse. Behind them, the small hut slouched against the ruined stone wall, the wood seeming about to crumble with age and its own weight, doors and window shutters and even walls creaking like the calling of thin, distant voices. The grey timbers blended with the tree trunks, then disappeared into the mist at the first turn of the road.

As he strode from one patch of slightly-less-sodden ground to the next, Alistair thought how odd it was that some of the most significant moments in his life had been spent in that hut. Such an unexpected place: first unwelcome, and then treasured, tied to his deepest, happiest memories.

Odd indeed, but Alistair had learned not to question good fortune while it lasted.

Together they set off across the soaked swamp, trying to avoid the worst of the mud. Alistair ducked the moss hanging off the low tree branches, and shook his head like a mabari when straggling silvery cobwebs showered him with wet from last night's rain.

When Alistair looked up, dodging the dewy touch of spiderwebs or hanging moss, the coils of fog overhead parted just for a moment, showing Alistair a sliver of distant blue sky, and a shadowy glimpse of some bird of prey, circling. Even breaking up like that, the fog was deceptive: it made that hawk look too large, almost like a dragon.

_Brr__! __Enough __of __that__. _Alistair shuddered - he told himself it was just water dripping down the back of his neck - and hurried on to catch up with Loghain.

* * *

All day, Alistair and Loghain kept on their course, following the river up toward the Southron Hills.

Flemeth landed by her abandoned hut as the last light of sunset was fading from the sky: just the right time for any decent travelers to be huddled near their campfires, away from any wild thing that goes bump in the night.

With a brief mirage-shimmer Flemeth transformed from a dragon into an old woman: bent and haggard, scrawny and frail and gray of hair. She cocked her head to the side and listened. Nothing but the wind and the sounds of harmless, mindless creatures. _Just __as __it __should __be__. _She smirked and crossed the short distance to the door, picking her way carefully across dirt churned up by her own dragon claws.

The door creaked open and Flemeth drew the slow, deep breath of a predator scenting prey. Ohhhh. _That_ scent. _Scents__._ Two of them. Rich, carnal, unmistakable. Flemeth's smirk stretched into a triumphant grin.

"Boys, boys, _boys_," she cackled gleefully, looking around. "I see those rumours about Warden stamina are well-founded after all." Unhurriedly she strolled around the hut, arms casually trailing after her, scratching idly at the walls with sharp nails, as if the weathered wood was alive and capable of shuddering at her touch. "Ooh, who would've thought you'd get some all the way up there?" The smirk widened as she rubbed her fingertips over a near invisible spot on the wall above the bed. "I knew that Theirin spawn was promising, but this definitely goes above and beyond."

She scratched at a speck on the pillow, brought her finger to her mouth and licked. The taste brought out a wider smile, a glint of mocking delight to her yellow eyes, dull in wrinkled sockets. "And my my, MacTir. Talk about vigorous farmer stock. The taint's been good for you!"

She drew another lungful of the lingering scent, raised her hands, fingers spread, feeling the air around her. Swirls of pure magic bloomed around her fingertips. "Now let us see just how good you two can be for me."

Her fingers curled abruptly into fists, as if gripping reins, and the swirls of light intensified into brilliant threads, anchored to spots and streaks and splashes previously invisible, all over the ramshackle hut. The light intensified, individual sparks as bright as stars rushing along each thread, drawn into Flemeth's body. Around her body, a haze of magical radiance grew, brighter and brighter until it blazed fiercer than lightning, until no eye could have discerned her form.

Then the flow of sparks slowed, the threads thinned and broke one by one, and as they broke the searing nimbus around Flemeth's body began to dim. Until the last filament shredded apart, and the hut was plunged in darkness once more.

A casual fingersnap, and fire burned in the fireplace, winked white from every candle.

Gone was the crone. In her place was a magnificent woman in dragonhide armor, pure white hair piled high and proud as dragon horns. Satisfaction gleamed bright in her golden eyes, and she licked her lips again, slowly, as if savouring a lingering taste.

"Well, that was... invigorating. And to _think _that some men laugh when I tell them it's good for the skin!"

Flemeth's husky laughter rang out, as she strode from the hut. The next instant, a mighty gust of wind - the thunderclap downdraught of vast dragon wings - slammed the door shut, and all was silent and still once more.


	17. The Road Back

**CHAPTER 17: The Road Back**

_In which Alistair is cleansed and enlightened._

By noon the fog had finally lifted, and sunny warmth followed Loghain and Alistair as they walked along the riverbank. To the right of them, the swampy soil rose into sparse forest, and to the left the Southron Hills stretched as far as the eye could see. The river snaked along, bending and twisting like the loopy lines drawn on Loghain's maps. Its pebbled banks gleamed with spray, and its swift-flowing water gurgled and frothed over the round rocks of its bed.

Alistair waved a long green reed tipped with a white blossom at Dog, tickling one floppy ear then the other, always keeping it up out of reach of puppyish bounces and lunges. The flower on the end was small and underdeveloped, like a shriveled up stalk from a tainted harvest, but it had a deep red center and it smelled vaguely of honey. Alistair remembered that people sometimes used them to make poultices for drawing out snake venom. Dog snapped playfully at the annoyance, then snorted, shook his head and pounced gleefully at Alistair instead, slurping and slobbering and wiggling his stumpy tail.

Here, even the Blight felt distant to Alistair, as if it had been left behind in the swamps. _Perhaps Loghain will mark this bit of the river completely clean on his map of the Blighted lands._

Alistair smiled, cheered by the thought. Slapping Dog's muscled side and whistling to get him to follow, he headed toward a small clearing. As he walked, Alistair's gaze was on the ground, looking around for a tell-tale glimpse of white. _Maybe I can find mushrooms for tonight's stew. This looks like a pretty good place for them: lots of damp from the river spray, not much direct sun. Wonder if Dog can sniff them out?_

Mushrooms were easy enough to hunt. The tasty ones were always the thick and tall ones, just thick enough to wrap your hand around, with meaty red knob-tops and fleshy textured stalks, poking enthusiastically from a thatch of grass. Mostly solitary, except when you were lucky enough to see two big ones growing side by side, or a taller one poking out above a pair of round ones beneath it. Those ones always looked extra edible, good enough to lick!

Alistair glanced back at Loghain, and blushed. Mushrooms! Yeah, after what he'd been up to recently, Alistair knew he'd never look at a mushroom ever again, without imagining ... other deliciously lickable things.

The shared shadow in the back of Alistair's mind was warm with Loghain's amusement, even before the rustle of footfalls striding through the grass warned Alistair of the man's approach. "Do tell," Loghain drawled, tongue firmly in cheek, "I could _feel_ you thinking from all the way back there."

Loghain's lopsided grin confirmed that the question wasn't serious, so Alistair spread his arms in an amiable shrug. "Can't blame a growing boy for getting hungry."

"'Boy'?" Loghain quoted in tones rich with disbelief. "There's only one way you're going to grow at your age, and it's not in height."

"Hah, that's all you know. I'm growing _hungry!_ And proud of it!" Just for that, Alistair stood so his belly stuck out, and patted it defiantly.

Loghain snorted, loud enough that the horse might've envied it. "Must be time to stop for the night then. Maker forbid that you should wait for something to _eat_," he drawled the last word to add a brief hint of innuendo, before continuing in brisker tones, "I'd go deaf with all the growling from that bottomless pit you call a stomach!"

It was a good time to make camp anyway, since the last outliers of the swamp were several hours' walk behind them. For their campsite they chose a tight bend in the river which formed a small pool, swirling with eddies, and fringed with lush grass.

With the campfire started, Alistair proudly presented his findings: some wild onion bulbs and an assortment of fleshy mushrooms, round and tall and thick, picked at the riverbank. Loghain raised an eyebrow at the collection, tapped the tallest mushroom cap at the tip, and hmphed, handing Alistair a knife. "I suppose they'll do." He nodded at the riverbank, and Alistair headed there, to wash and trim the roots from his contributions to tonight's supper.

As he worked, Alistair grinned and swallowed; his mouth was already watering in anticipation. Even if he wasn't a growing boy in the usual sense, there was nothing small about his appetites.

Meanwhile, Loghain rummaged through their bags to gather a motley heap of smallclothes, socks and such - his and Alistair's - and carried it all out to the riverbank. Alistair eyed him, exchanging curious glances with Dog.

Loghain found a large flat stone by the water's edge, the kind washerwomen would use to scrub down dirty laundry, and settled down with the soap.

"Get your gear off," he threw over his shoulder at Alistair.

Alistair blinked and forced the hopeful grin off his face.

"_All_ of it!" Loghain grumbled. That no-nonsense forbidding stare looked much too determined to mean playtime.

_Right then, _Alistair sighed and got busy. At least Loghain didn't carry on about the state of his socks like Wynne. Alistair kicked his boots off and got out of his shirt quickly, with the propriety that had been schooled into him during his years in the templar barracks.

But far from looking away, like any proper templar would, Loghain stared shamelessly. His lopsided grin looked an awful lot like a leer.

It was flattering, that leer. Alistair lifted his hand to scratch the back of his head and hoped that the heat on his face wasn't manifesting itself in any other ways.

Loghain pointedly eyed him from the top of his head to his toes, and it was a wonder his stare didn't leave scorch marks in its wake.

Alistair tried to drag his mind out of the gutter by reminding himself just how many useful chores needed to be done. _What first? _"Need help?" Alistair waved at the greens he'd just washed and trimmed, to show he was free to lend a hand. When that didn't get a reaction, he shuffled his feet and scratched his shin with one muddy toe. "I can, um, do some of the clothes or check on the horse or..."

"The horse is fine, and there's only the one bar of soap left." Loghain finished scrubbing the last pair of smallclothes and then moved to hang them all over nearby bushes to dry. Then he handed the soap to Alistair, but not before giving him another assessing, thorough look-over. "Get in." He tilted his head toward the water, without breaking that challenging stare. His smile was as bright and fleeting as the glint of sunlight on the river. "What with all your usual adventures, you'll start smelling of wet dog before Dog will."

Dog gave a disgruntled whine, making it clear that he appreciated the comparison just about as much as fleas.

Loghain gave the mabari an amused look. "Yes, you get in there too. Go on."

Dog sneezed at that idea, but when Loghain's stare only sharpened, the hound shook himself all over and galloped toward the river, bounding away from the bank and landing with a bellyflop and a huge splash, soaking Alistair from head to toe.

Not to be outdone by a mabari, Alistair pffted at the drops dripping off his nose and ran into the river, dunking his head in all the way, with an equally big splash. When he emerged for a big gulp of air, Dog paddled back to shore past him, bouncing up by Loghain who, ankles deep in the water, unbuckled Dog's collar and scratched loose dirt from the hound's thick neck. All the while, the mabari bared his sharp teeth in a happy doggy grin, lolling out his tongue and soaking up all the scratching.

Alistair finished giving himself a quick scrub and came closer, snorting at the spectacle. The same hand that had reduced Dog to a melting pile of puppy pleasure stopped Alistair, and then swatted his backside. And it was not fair at all, the way that sudden, groping contact felt like a warm lightning bolt passing from Loghain's fingers and sending shivers up Alistair's spine._ I'm being much more dignified about it than that soggy, tail-wagging mutt, _he consoled himself. _Though who would like getting their itches scratched? I know I wouldn't mind that a bit!_

_But not until tonight!_

* * *

The hillside up ahead of the dwindling river felt peaceful. The Southron Hills were Loghain's territory through and through: soil marked by the planted tentpoles of his rebel camps, enriched by the Orlesian blood spilt in his battle victories.

When he had fled the King's forces with Maric, into the rebel camp up the river, they were caught between two separate armies of the usurper, north and south. Maric, the stubborn sod, had refused to run to save his life. _Bloody __**had**__ to go fight on the front lines. Bloody __**had**__ to go sailing. Bloody. Gloryhound. Optimistic. Idiot. Theirins! _So Loghain had donned Maric's armor to take on his appearance, and had fled north, drawing off the army. Maric had fought to the south, while Rowan and her men had given reinforcements to Loghain, and together they had destroyed the Orlesian invaders and their commander.

Loghain's plan worked. The rebel forces lived to fight another day. Maric survived against all odds. And therefore Alistair existed, to walk this land with Loghain now.

Loghain turned an assessing look on the bigger of the two pups splashing in the water. He rested a hand on Alistair's wet mop, and tilted up his damp chin. "Stay still."

"Wha?" Alistair looked up at him with a gaze as warm as the mabari's, only lacking a floppy ear above one eye. Loghain wiped soap suds off his hand onto Alistair's face, and his thumb rubbed at the vaguely hairy chin. _High time someone took care of that pathetic patch of fluff he probably calls a beard. _

"- oh," Alistair noticed Loghain's dagger, and grinned up at him, all bright eyes and beaming smile. "Thanks."

Loghain had _never _seen that reaction before when he'd drawn a dagger on someone.

Loghain arched an eyebrow at the first hint of movement, tested the dagger's blade against his palm - still sharp - and put a few scrapes of the blade on the sides of Alistair's jaw, just to salve Alistair's pride.

As Loghain worked, he marvelled inwardly at the way Alistair actually managed to stay stock-still for a few seconds at a time. That thought brought a small smile to Loghain's lips.

"What?" Alistair whispered, blinking up as Loghain steadied his hand next to the bobbing lump of cartilage of Alistair's throat. Nearby the mabari grew tired of one riverbank for splashing in, and galloped off deeper, even attempting to swimming across to the opposite shore for entertainment.

"You're even better behaved than Dog."

"Hard not to be. You're_ very _persuasive."

"Oh?"

"Uh-huh. You've got that special - um." Alistair swallowed between blade strokes. "Touch."

_Foolish lad, anyone else would pay attention to my dagger at his neck._ "Hush," Loghain breathed, putting a few finishing touches on his handiwork, and ran his knuckles along the smooth jaw. "Wouldn't want you stumbling on my blade at this late stage, after you've lived through all those close calls."

"All? There wasn't that many. Really! You're a fine one to talk!"

As far as close calls went, there were plenty to share between them. "You survived the Joining." Loghain's lips twisted, at the thought of those odds twisting against Alistair's favor. "You survived the Blight. You even survived Flemeth. Shall I go on?"

"Flemeth. Ha! Lucky to see the last of _that _evil crone!" Alistair snorted. But a moment later, his triumphant expression shifted to self-consciousness. "Mind you," he added, in a belated - and misguided - attempt to be fair even to Flemeth, "I suppose she was good for something." When Loghain gave him a deeply skeptical look, he added, "She even helped save you. Sort of."

Loghain's eyebrows lifted sharply. "_What_?"

Alistair blinked, the flow of his chatter faltering at Loghain's bark. "Yeah. Um. See, when I found you at Ostagar, I couldn't wake you up, no matter what I did. I was afraid you were lost or trapped in the Fade. So I tried everything to help you, and nothing worked, and you just kept getting weaker, so I went looking through Flemeth's stuff. And, see, I found this potion..."

Suspicion stabbed abruptly at Loghain. "You fed me one of Flemeth's potions!" he yelped. It wasn't a question.

Alistair opened his mouth to answer but nothing coherent emerged, his teeth worrying at his bottom lip.

Loghain stared, awaiting the answer he already knew.

Alistair fidgeted and glanced away and sighed, only confirming it. "Well, no, I didn't just give you any old bottle off that witch's shelf!" Alistair protested. "...Not right away, anyway," he added in an undertone, the admission dragged out of him as his gaze darted from Loghain's stare to his mouth. But then Alistair's eyebrows drew together in determination and he held up a hand to forestall another interjection. "Look, I _know_ it could've been poison! But I didn't give it to you before trying it out first!" As he said the last words, Alistair winced, as if he'd belatedly realised what he'd just admitted.

"You fed _yourself_ one of Flemeth's potions?!" Loghain cried, even louder. He had to clench his fingers into a fist. It was that or grab the brat by his shoulders and shake him 'til his teeth rattled. _Maybe that would shake some sense into him!_ "What could have _possibly _convinced you _that _was a good idea?"

But far from being cowed by Loghain's outrage, Alistair just came closer, walking out of the water to stand toe to toe with him. There wasn't a trace of embarrassment at his nudity in Alistair's expression: just determination, and the echoes of worry. "You were _dying_!" Alistair snapped. His amber-brown eyes were wide, meeting Loghain's stare without flinching. His chin lifted in pure conviction, his gaze was direct and emphatic, and the sun glistened in the water on his coppery hair, on his bare shoulders. "I had to save you. _**Had**__ to!_ And I'd do it all over again if it came to that!"

Loghain's hand settled on Alistair's shoulder, but the urge to shake him was abruptly gone. His fingers pressed into the thick muscle and traced the cords up to the curve of Alistair's neck. Loghain squeezed, more gently than he'd meant to, and his thumb rested on the side of Alistair's freshly-shaven jaw.

"Let's hope you won't have to do it again," Loghain muttered at last, the wry tone a tacit concession of Alistair's point. Loghain had meant to add something ironic about how witches' brews seldom led to anything good. But he left the words unsaid because Alistair gave a sigh of relief at his reaction, then leaned into his hand like a pup seeking attention. When he didn't pull away, Alistair smiled and bowed his head, pressing his face to Loghain's shoulder.

"Anyway, it was only a sip!" Loghain could feel Alistair's mouth moving against his skin. Alistair's chin was sharp against his shoulder as the younger man pulled him into an odd sort of sideways hug, with both of them standing awkward and still. "Just one sip, 'cause you needed the rest of it."

The way Alistair dismissed the risk to his own safety ought to have made Loghain burst a blood vessel, undoing all of Alistair's (and possibly Flemeth's) work. But somehow that didn't happen. Perhaps it was the way those seemingly careless words were spoken: murmured into his ear, by a particularly prime specimen of Fereldan warrior.

"Look, Grey Wardens don't die of poison, at least not this kind of poison." Alistair kept talking and his voice was low and level and his stare was clouded over by something more than determination to persuade Loghain, something more like need, and who'd've thought the sight of that would send such a jolt of heat through Loghain's blood, "It's... that famed Warden resilience!"

"Warden _stamina_," Loghain corrected slyly. _Surely there are enough tales told about that_

_to make even a templar wonder._

"Stamina, yeah!" Alistair echoed, his eyes lighting up. "The strength to go on fighting!"

_Fighting... _Loghain snorted, "You could say that. Not to mention other things starting with 'f'."

Alistair beamed, right at the moment when Loghain was used to seeing him blush. Not that the blush was absent exactly, but the added smile made it so much more appealing. "And fornicating! Fearlessly. With fury. Fortitude. Finesse. Forever!"

So wide and sunny that grin was. With Alistair's wide chest bared, and broad shoulders squared, Loghain had no trouble imagining Ferelden's crown gleaming atop that fiery hair. _Theirin men never change! Doesn't take much to get them crowing about their victories. _"Foolhardy fantasies!"

"Hmph." Alistair's lips curled in the corners. "Foolhardy or not, _you_ liked it."

"_Did_ I?" Loghain drawled.

"Oh, I remember, don't worry!" Alistair grinned, untroubled by Loghain's glower. "And we should try again. Make sure I get this blowthing - job - right this time. ...OK, right_er_."

"Stop it. Brat!" Loghain grumbled, heavy brows lowering in a more serious frown. "Of all the things you ought to learn, using sex to settle arguments is not one of them!"

Alistair shook his head, his laughter replaced at once by an intent, earnest look. "No, I'd never do that. Not to you!" Loghain could lose himself in that stare. Alistair's hands rested on Loghain's shoulders; he looped Loghain's braids around his fingertips in a loose hold.

"It's not just about sex with you, you know that," Alistair whispered, as if sharing a secret. "It's like..." his gaze went distant for a moment and he gave a small, reminiscent smile, "...like we're always trading dares together and we don't even have to think about it anymore, it just _is_. And you say 'Alistair,' and you touch me just right, like now, and I... I'm bound, without you using anything to tie me down, not even something as thin as spidersilk. Just with your voice: the way that rumble in it echoes through me. The way you stare at me, and it makes me shiver. _That_."

"This?" Loghain echoed, taking in the bright stare, the closeness of a warm breath against his cheek from the trailing whisper of an unexpected confession.

"Yeah, this. And it's _breathtaking _when it happens! It's like falling but flying instead! All because you _understand_, and no matter what you do, I know I can _trust_ you, no matter what. I never even knew it was possible, but it's happening, right now, and I don't want to lose it. Never!"

They were arguing before, in a half-teasing, half-sincere way, that much Loghain remembered. But all he could do right now was give into the absolute bliss of Alistair's tone and the warmth of his touch and the intensity of his gaze and that breathless, maddening confession.

_Frank. Frantic. Forward. And all the other fun things starting with 'f'._

Even then, Loghain's mind was far more practical than the moment deserved. _Flat, curved dragonbones, _he planned as his fingertips traced the side of Alistair's neck._ Each about three fingers wide... _It was a project he'd thought about on and off, ever since he'd caught up to Alistair and noticed the worrying way his splintmail left his throat bare. When Alistair had shown him Flemeth's bones, Loghain had inwardly rejoiced. Here was the perfect material for his surprise. Loghain had salvaged the smallest one of the dragon's ribs, and now he spent spare moments visualising the exact shapes he'd carve it into: a gorget, an armored collar made of dragonbone plates, held together with the leather and buckle from his spare belt.

_He needs it for protection. It's only reasonable, _Loghain told himself, as he traced the tender skin between Alistair's jaw down to his clavicle. He almost believed his own rationalisation. Almost managed to ignore the visceral thrill he felt every time he thought of _collaring_ Alistair.

He sought distraction from that thrill in another, in following with his gaze the path his fingertips drew down Alistair's chest. It worked, and his thoughts left dreams of a dragonbone collar far behind. Instead he lost himself in the moment: the warmth of living skin, the spatter of freckles on Alistair's shoulders, and the easy way Alistair's lips parted under Loghain's gaze.

It was so easy, so natural to lean in and capture those flushed lips in a kiss. To test the result of his work with a blade, by brushing his fingertips featherlight over the smooth skin of chin, jaw and throat.

He stepped forward to stand at Alistair's side, knee-deep in the river, and slid his hands around Alistair's wet, warm body, pulling him deeper into a messy, perfect kiss, and feeling hard arms wind tight around his body, capturing him in turn.

Dog circled around them, bouncing and capering like a hare in springtime, all floppy wet ears and heavy paws, trying to get a lick in edgewise. Alistair swatted the mabari's side, laughing, and Loghain listened in simple delight, basking in the other man's exuberance.

* * *

_It's not humanly possible to be this happy,_ Alistair thought. _Something's bound to happen, because things this good just don't last._ He shook the thought away. It was a templar habit, and a bad one: to worry. To think that there was always a price to pay for happiness, a price to pay for the magic potion that saved Loghain's life. If you believed in the Maker, then everything good came only at a price, and payment could fall due any moment; was likely to do so at the worst possible moment. _But that's not true,_ Alistair told himself sternly._ It's not true at all. I know that now._

Alistair shook off the foreboding looming at the back of his mind like a circling vulture. _We're both happy now, and it's worth it. It's worth anything, to have Loghain here, alive. I'd pay any price for that!_

_Anything at all! _

Their journey up the river and north was swift and joyful, as if Alistair walked always with the sun at his back, wreathed in a warm haze of bliss. When they left the last fringes of the Korcari Wilds behind and the chances of encountering darkspawn dwindled, Loghain celebrated by shedding the Archdemon plate in favor of his well-worn leathers: all the better to put the darkspawn-haunted days of Ostagar behind him, and return to the more relaxed life of a hunter.

Alistair spent the nights sitting by Loghain, reclining into the steady support of his side, as they ate that day's catch and watched the fire flicker up against the distant stars. After the fire died down to coals, they were far too distracted by more earthly pleasures to watch the stars at all.

During the daytime, in the leafy shadows of the forest, Alistair had spotted halla tracks as they carefully skirted around the Dalish clans' territory. There were all manner of wild animals in the woods here, bears and wolves and spiders and the Maker knew what else. But the beasts weren't Blighted, and so they weren't a real threat to any of them, not even to Dog, who blithely watered trees to mark his land.

In the evenings, after their dinner was caught and cooked and eaten, Loghain passed the quiet time before the fire died in one of two ways. Either he pored over his maps, meticulously updating them with that day's experience of tiny shifts in bends of river and borders of forest (having long since set aside the charcoal he'd used to shade the depth of blight on the land). Or else he'd continue with the pastime that kept his hands busy during each long day's walk: patiently whittling something - or several somethings - out of the harvested dragonbone. Each slow stroke of his dagger would send paper-thin white shavings curling away from the sharp edge, and falling to the grass like apple blossom. The stubborn git had resisted all Alistair's attempts to wheedle out of him what he was making, and the shapes - flat, smooth, curved, unidentifiable - didn't help either.

As they traveled, they'd even begun to encounter traces of people here and there, settlements and villagers. Hunters. Traders.

A dwarven merchant who called himself Old Tegrin had sold them cheese and hard bread, salt and soap. As Alistair had rifled through helms and maces of dwarven make, Loghain had thumbed through a stack of scrolls. He unrolled a curling canvas, revealing a painting of a red headed woman in armor atop a broken chariot. Loghain had paused for a long time, gazing down into the canvas, his expression unreadable. When he awakened from his reverie he paid far more for the painting than Alistair would ever have considered.

"Who's that?" Alistair peered around Loghain's shoulder.

Loghain hmphed, offering him the painting. "You of all people should know. She was your grandmother."

Alistair hadn't felt so sheepish since the day Sister Sarah told him that the moon wasn't made out of cheese like all the other the orphan boys claimed, and no, he certainly couldn't reach it by climbing to the rooftop at midnight.

* * *

"... Moira Theirin. The Rebel Queen."

Alistair reached out instinctively to take the canvas from Loghain. All the while he stared, fascinated, at the painting. Apparently he was trying to discern a likeness between the face captured in decades-old brushstrokes, and his own features.

Good. This distraction was exactly what Loghain had been hoping for when he paid the trader's extortionate price for the painting. The coins were well worthwhile, though: Alistair was so absorbed in studying Moira's likeness that he never even glanced up when Loghain sidled silently over to Tegrin. He certainly didn't notice Loghain paying the merchant an even more exorbitant sum, to carry a hastily scribbled note to Denerim.

Tegrin had bade them both a fond farewell hours ago, coaxing his ox cart to a jangling pace, before they spotted the distinctive trails of chimney smoke from a distant village. "Let's call it a night." Loghain said firmly. Stopping so soon would give the merchant a headstart so he could reach Denerim before them; it would give Anora time to prepare for their arrival.

Alistair shrugged, beaming, oblivious. "All right!"

They spent the evening at an inn, with stew they didn't have to catch and clean and cook, and the luxury of ale and chairs and the murmur of conversation. And then they retired to bed, in a _real_ bed, with a fresh straw mattress and cotton pillows so soft Alistair had to punch one to flatten it for his use, until eventually he gave up on it and curled up by Loghain's side, choosing Loghain's shoulder for his pillow instead.

It was still a bit early for bed. Loghain could even see the candle smoke in the twilight as Alistair blew out the candle. Not that the brat seemed much interested in sleep. He tossed and turned and wriggled slowly against Loghain, far too suggestive to be unintentional.

Loghain couldn't contain his rueful smile against the coppery mop of Alistair's hair. He pressed his lips to the top of Alistair's head, exhaling a hopefully-soothing _ssshhh_. "This bed is old and squeaky. Are you _sure _you want the entire inn to know what we were _up_ to _all_ night?"

Alistair, the teasing sod, draped himself over Loghain and deliberately thrust to test the wooden headboard. "I'm game, if you're _up_ for it."

Loghain sighed. _So much for the subtle approach to warning him off._ It wasn't that Loghain wasn't tempted, far from it. But he knew perfectly well that Alistair couldn't afford the rumours that his impetuous lust would start tonight._ Someone will have to teach him some semblance of tact before he takes the throne. Hopefully Anora's 'up for it'. _He firmly squashed every wave of protest which rose up at the thought, bitter as bile in his throat.

_It can't be me forever, that's impossible. But if anyone in Thedas can do the job, then my daughter the Undisputed Queen of Ferelden should keep him in line. _

Reluctantly, Loghain shifted his lower body back just far enough to get some much needed space between himself and any over-enthusiastic friction. Then he yawned pointedly, long and loud. "Easy for you to say," he grumbled, in a voice deliberately thick with weariness. "Old bastards like me need their sleep."

"Oh, all right." Alistair breathed, and suddenly there were lips against his temple, warm and soft. The kiss was nearly chaste, simple and unhurried. Then, Alistair drew a blanket over them both, before sliding an arm over Loghain's chest. Alistair's fingers traced the point of Loghain's jaw gently, raising a faint rasp of stubble in the evening quiet. "Get some rest, then, 'old man'," he murmured, a teasing smile audible on the last two words. "It's only fair. You've got all day tomorrow to stay in and wear me out."

* * *

'All day tomorrow' did end up wearing Alistair out, just not in the way he wanted. Loghain woke him and Dog up at dawn, and the stubborn sod wasn't just already out of bed, he was fully dressed and all business, packing their things and yelling down the hallway for breakfast. A hurried meal later, Alistair trudged along in Loghain's wake as he led them out of the inn and toward Denerim by what, knowing him, was guaranteed to be the shortest possible route: cutting over loops in the road, passing more and more merchant carts and farm wagons pulled by plodding oxen. Soon they'd made so much progress that Alistair could see the monstrous shape of the Dragon's Peak looming in the distance. It reminded him of Flemeth's empty-socketed skull, left sun-bleached and overgrown with weeds far behind them in the Wilds.

The Brecilian Forest was nothing but a distant memory now, its green-shadowed glades long since exchanged for sunlit pastures. By afternoon, they were crossing the Drakon River at a rickety bridge. Past the river, the road broadened from one cart-width to two: a sign as clear as the growing number of farmsteads that they were approaching Denerim. Perhaps, Alistair hoped, once they were in the privacy and protection of the royal quarters, Loghain would rest and relax enough to set this driven, no-nonsense mask aside, and go back to his dryly witty, passionate self.

Alistair watched over him, as Loghain slept that night. The campfire's embers lit the man's aquiline profile, and Alistair blinked at the still, moonlit figure - slumbering, defenseless, trusting him to stand guard - and he grinned like a complete fool. The warmth in his chest and the lightness in his soul felt like the fire's sparks flying against the moon.

Overhead, the stars shone like lit beacons. Distant but calming, always there: like Andraste's flame kept safe by her followers, like the careful markings on Loghain's maps preserved in their case.

Alistair found himself imagining how future conversations with his friends might go to explain his current... state of affairs. _'Well, Wynne, you see, it's like this. Loghain was Loghain, but he tracked me down and we went to Ostagar together and then we stayed - together - and we just sort of... yeah, he and I. And it's a __**good**__ thing. Really, really good. I trust him, with everything. Please don't make that face! Promise you won't hex him.'_ Wynne's eyes would narrow and she'd just stare and Alistair could already feel himself flushed with frustration just thinking of it.

Speaking of frustration, it could've been worse than Wynne's worst stare. Just for a moment, Alistair pictured himself succumbing to the interrogations of a certain Antivan assassin: _'Yes, Zevran, he is good. He's really, um, __**good **__too: with his bow, and with his ropes... If you know what I mean. Er, 'course you do. Tell Isabela hi when you see her next, will you?'_

To think of it, any reactions to Alistair's confession would probably go from misunderstandings to plain frustration. Like hitting your head against a stone statue... _'Er, Shale, you see, when two humans really really like each other, sometimes they get really close like two pebbles in a stream, and rub off each other's rough parts, and come out much shinier and brighter and...' Oh, what's the use!_

Alistair couldn't think of a single man, dwarf, or elf who'd take the news seriously. _'Oghren, er, no, it's not the mushrooms. Or the ale. I can explain! Oh, Maker's breath, no I can't.'_

He could just see the flabbergasted stares, or worse. Much worse! _Anora will poison me, or cut my throat in my sleep! ...No, she wouldn't even have to lift a finger, her royal guards would do it for her, as soon as they corner me away from witnesses. Isn't that what usually happens to royal bastards who run off and break their engagement in favor of running off with the bride's father instead? Yeah. They just disappear in a dungeon somewhere and no one ever hears from them again._

And yet, there were some who he desperately wanted to tell.

_'Duncan... you know, you always told me Grey Wardens were family. That all we could ever really have was each other. And you were right! You see, I've got someone. Someone I care about, very much. He's a good soldier and a good man. A lot like you. I only hope you would've been happy for me.'_

Some things were too important not to share. Some things deserved to be said, even though there was no one there to hear them.

_'Solona, Mother, it happened. Dunno how it happened really, but I'm in love. Sort of fell into it. Didn't want to. Didn't even expect to. But now I'm in it. With him. And it's so amazing.'_

_Incredible. _

_He changed my life, just by striding into it and staying._

Alistair didn't kiss Loghain for fear of waking him, but he gently brushed stray hairs away from Loghain's face, pulled the covers over the sleeping man. Loghain's breathing was uneven, tension flickered fitfully in his brows and the twist of his mouth, and the taint felt uneasy and restless, stirred up by his presence. Perhaps Loghain was dreaming just then.

"Shhh," Alistair breathed. "S'all right. M'here."

* * *

At sunset, Denerim's city wall came into view at last. Loghain's horse snorted and suddenly broke into a saddlebag-jangling trot, even though she was weighted down by both their gear. Loghain was forced to run after her and grab her reins to stop her from leaving them behind like an impatient filly once she caught the distant scent of home. Dog, enthusiastic as ever, barked and bounded circles around the suddenly energetic mare.

As soon as they walked inside the city gates, they were greeted by an army. There was no other way to describe it. A whole army! Banners waving and trumpets blowing fanfares and everything!

So unprepared was Alistair for this extravagant welcome, he wondered if there was a parade or a holiday and he'd completely forgotten the occasion. _Surely there has to be some celebration to warrant all this pomp and circumstance?_ But the armored parade stopped, encircling them in a wall of gleaming plate, and the gathered cry went up: "All hail! Consort-Presumptive Alistair Theirin!"

Alistair blinked, and scratched his tousled mop, and tried in vain to palm the worst of the road dust off his face, and hoped against hope that the warmth he felt in his ears and cheeks wasn't a blush. _According to the entire world, I'm Anora's betrothed, and King-to-be or some such. So ironic! I bet Loghain wouldn't even help, the sarcastic sod, if I asked him to get me out of this mess! _

Just when things didn't feel like they could get any worse, the parade's commander, shining in his mirror-bright armor, addressed Alistair personally, giving him a long and wordy speech of welcome.

Alistair's mind went blank, and he felt his eyes glazing over in the stare of a rabbit trapped in a snare. He felt mentally battered by the sudden crush of people surrounding him and the commander's loud spate of words, doubly disorienting after the silence of weeks in the Wilds with no other voice but Loghain's reassuring terseness. At the best of times, Alistair had never been good at listening to courtiers and digging sense out of their slippery speeches. But as the pompous stream of speechifying - directed as much to the crowds as it was to Alistair - at last seemed to be running dry, Alistair managed to catch something about, "...no doubt you must be weary after your long journey, my liege; I beg you to allow me the privilege of personally escorting you to your suite."

_Maker!_ Alistair shook himself mentally, trying to escape the maelstrom dizziness of the barrage of words. Frantically he reached for a lifeline: What would Loghain think? He tried to imagine himself in those supremely cynical shoes. The private imitation of Loghain's tone came to him with surprising ease. _To listen to this peacock talk, _came that low voice, its imagined sarcasm reassuringly familiar,_ it's a wonder he's not bending over right this s_ec_ond, to pull off_ _your _..._armor and lick your_ ..._boots! What's his bloody_ _hurry?_

Alistair was just about to tell the commander to cosy up to some other noble in Anora's palace, but that moment the real Loghain nodded to him, pale eyes heavylidded in dark sockets: a weary look that raised horrible memories of endless vigils over a barely-breathing almost-corpse. "Go on," Loghain muttered in an undertone that, unlike their welcoming committee, wasn't pitched for listening ears. "We could both do with a hot soak and a good long rest."

Alistair couldn't keep the uncertainty he felt from his face, but in response Loghain just snorted and shook his head. "Well if you're that desperate for company," he drawled in that familiar, teasing way, "you could always take Dog with you." He glanced aside to the mabari, who huffed amiably and padded over to sit by Alistair's side, his solid body leaning sideways into Alistair's shin.

Dog wasn't the company Alistair most wanted, but apparently that was the best he'd do for the moment. "Only if you're sure," he whispered back to Loghain, before patting Dog and adding, "Don't worry, boy, I'll take care of us both." The mabari looked up at him, panting, and wagged his stumpy tail.

They started moving with the crowd, and around them, rose petals floated from the balconies, ribbons hung from the trees, banners flew on the wind.

"Just wait 'til we get out of this crowd!" Alistair muttered under his breath to the mabari, who cocked an ear and listened as he padded along by Alistair's side. "Someone deserves all the tastiest bones from the kitchens. Forget Loghain, stick with me and you'll be licking the pots clean all day long in no time. The kitchen maids? They'll be serving you sausages on a silver platter. Just you wait and see."

The honor guard flocked to them like a pack of flies, surrounding Alistair from all sides, leaving him no choice but to move at a brisk pace.

_Like cows led to a pasture. Loghain's far too patient with them, _Alistair thought. _The sour old sod's probably just as put out by all this commotion as I am._

Surrounded on all sides by the cheering army - some Honor Guard they were - he looked over his shoulder to grumble at Loghain for leading him into this mess.

But Loghain wasn't behind him.

_Huh. Where'd he go? _After weeks of being constantly at Alistair's side, all of a sudden Loghain was nowhere in sight.

Choking back a sudden stab of anxiety, Alistair craned his neck and looked everywhere. Loghain was tall and broad and armored in distinctive all-black leathers; he should've been easy to spot, his dark head towering above the crowd. But no matter how intently Alistair looked for him, he simply wasn't there. Alistair swallowed._ He just got separated from me in all this mob. That's all._

But even the taint felt empty, closed off, solitary. As if there was no other Warden in all of Ferelden. Suddenly Alistair felt horribly alone, even in the midst of this noisy throng, even as he was dazzled and deafened and jostled by it, carried along by it as inexorably as a river, herded ever closer to the high stone walls of the palace.


	18. Denerim

**CHAPTER 18: Denerim**

The late afternoon sun poured slanting rays through the west-facing window, kindling dustmotes to aimlessly circling golden stars. Loghain paused on the threshold of his rooms, looking around. It felt oddly like staring at a display in a museum, even though it was only a month or so since he'd been here last. He shrugged the saddlebags off his shoulders and dumped them onto the bed.

Despite the excuse he'd given to Alistair, he'd seldom felt less like sleep.

He strode over to the desk: one of the few areas that showed real change since he'd seen it last. There was a new pile of correspondence there, awaiting his attention.

_Of course. As always._

He sat down and started breaking seals and reading. It was as good a way as any to take his mind off the spike of anxiety he'd felt through the taint, in the split second before he marshalled his inner forces, did all he could to mute that connection, distance himself from it.

A scroll marked by a griffin seal sat inconspicuously among the pile of letters. He set it aside for last. With his luck, whatever tidings it held would hardly be good.

But of course this transparent attempt to delay the inevitable didn't work for long. As he finally unrolled the scroll and read it, his expression stiffened, his lips thinned and his eyebrows drew together in a stern scowl.

* * *

_**Warden-Commander of Ferelden,**_

_**You are ordered to travel immediately to the Wardens' fortress at Montsimmard.**_

_**Report to the Warden-Commander there for further instructions.**_

_**First Warden of the Grey,**_

_**Weisshaupt.**_

* * *

The scroll had no names, not Loghain's, not the First Warden's; a grim reminder of how replaceable Wardens were seen at Weisshaupt. Even immediately after a Blight. Even when they were the only two Wardens left in all of Ferelden. As a seasoned soldier himself, Loghain couldn't even feel surprised.

His first, instinctive reaction was an internal snarl of_ Well, fuck the First Warden if he thinks either of us is leaving Ferelden to dance to some Orlesian's tune!_ But the next moment, he sighed. _Actually,_ he admitted reluctantly,_ it's perfect timing. I've put this off long enough already. Time to finally face facts._ He bowed his head, propping his brow in one hand, closing his eyes as he thought._ Alistair will never settle into his role while I'm around. Anora deserves better, Ferelden deserves better, than a distracted king. I have to get away, let him get over it. And nowhere in Ferelden would be out of the King's reach._ His shoulders slumped. _I have to get out of the country. And I suppose this is as good an excuse to go as any._

He picked the letter up again, re-reading it. Reading between the lines._ With the shared threat of the Blight over for the time being, it looks like the Orlesians want a figurehead. Ironic. The news that __**I'm**__ a Warden would hardly give the needed boost to recruitment in __**Orlais**__. _He smiled viciously at that thought; but the next moment the smile twisted into a grimace. _Though I suppose __**I**__ wouldn't be that much more of a rallying point in __**Ferelden**__. Not anymore._

He shook his head, a spasmodic flick of his hair like a restless horse, dismissing dark thoughts.

_Nevertheless, _he told himself firmly,_ there's only one 'Warden-Commander' in Ferelden, and it's certainly not Alistair. He'll have more important things to do than that. Like helping my daughter run the country!_

Loghain set the letter down and let his gaze rest on anything other than the crisp, impersonal script. His vision blurred unexpectedly: an unacceptable lapse which could mean death on the battlefield. With a wordless snarl he swiped the wet from his eyes.

His Hero of the River Dane armor shone on the armor stand in the corner: ornate Chevalier plate almost coppery in the low rays of the setting sun. He remembered the weight of it so well after all those years; it bent his shoulders even from a distance. It was a hard, cold reminder that a man could only do so much to run away from his past or his duties before they caught up to him.

Loghain looked down at the armor he was currently wearing. The black leathers were another reminder, bitter in hindsight, of earlier, simpler times, when he'd led the Night Elves. Before that sick fucker Howe had hounded him into believing in the economic inevitability of the worst act of his brief, disastrous Regency: signing some from the Alienage into slavery.

He'd tried to console himself with the thought that it was a necessary sacrifice: that way, at least some of them would survive. Some would escape the deadly danger of staying in an indefensible slum, in a city soon to be the frontline of war with an Archdemon-led darkspawn army.

But he'd never been as good at lying to himself as Howe had been at lying to him. So he'd taken to drink, hiding in a bottle from intolerable grief and self-loathing. The booze was just one more shame, trivial compared to all the others. It dulled the ache just enough to help him sleep. So it was a better companion than Howe, and all the other backstabbing excuses for "nobility" that had crawled into Denerim, in the years since Maric had been lost.

The cord from his unstrung longbow was looped loosely around the wood. Its silk caught the sunset, the strands gleaming golden, as full of life as a sunbeam. Like a bond around Alistair's strong, straining wrists.

_How did I delude myself into thinking that I actually __**deserved **__him?_

Loghain rose from the desk, trudged over to the bed, picked up his unstrung bow, letting the familiar slim length of yew slide through his fingers as he gazed down at his leather-clad forearms.

_Not much point in getting out of this armor, or stowing my bow or supplies. I'll need to leave soon, under cover of darkness, if I'm ever going to get out of here unhindered._

He set the bow aside for now, and rummaged through his pack, pulling out everything that he wouldn't need.

For a long time he stood, the Archdemon-fang sword in one hand, Maric's blade in the other. Finally, with a quiet snarl, he dropped the dragon fang on the bed beside his packs. He pulled Maric's shield out of one of the packs, and carried that and Maric's blade over to the Chevalier plate. He slung the shield over the cuirass' back and buckled the swordbelt about its waist.

_I don't have the right to these. They should go to Maric's heir._

_Besides, _he told himself as he turned away from the armor stand and trudged back to his pack,_ the dragon fang's lighter, easier to carry. And it'll remind those useless Orlesian bastards what Ferelden has dealt with, without any help from them!_

He took out the set of curved dragonbone plates he'd carved with such patience over the long journey back. It was the work of a few minutes to cut down a spare belt and thread the plates together onto the thick leather band. They interlocked perfectly, forming a near-seamless collar, shaped exquisitely to fit one specific neck. A lopsided smirk dawned as Loghain thought back on all the silly guesses, all the wheedling, all the other transparent stratagems Alistair had used to try to get him to reveal what the plates were for.

_Well, he'll find out at last,_ Loghain thought as he set the collar on the desk. _I wish I could be here to see the gobsmacked look on his face when he finally realises._

The faint smile faded and his lips thinned in a bitter grimace as he took the map case out of his pack, and set it carefully down on the desk beside the collar.

_If I can't stay in Ferelden, at least these should. For Fereldans to study, so they can know their land better._

The old maps were history, and deserved to be known. The new maps, the ones he'd drawn, were complete, right down to showing the location and intensity of the Blight, and the precious knowledge of the rare, safe spots in the midst of all that danger. A memory of Alistair's Clearing flashed, bright and brief as a spark from the fireplace, and was gone.

The maps were done.

He was done. His duty here was over. He'd delivered Alistair, just as he'd promised. He'd brought his daughter her husband. He'd brought his country her king.

He was finished here. Just like he and Alistair were finished.

_It's over._

A sense of loss swept over him, chilling him physically, prickling his nape like a bitter winter wind. Service to Ferelden always required sacrifice. Maric and Rowan knew it. Loghain knew it. He'd done this before: given up Rowan, so that Ferelden could have her Queen. He could do it again: give up Alistair so that Ferelden could have her King.

Ferelden was a harsh mistress: her needs had always taken precedence over all else in Loghain's life. His heart felt heavy, his body ached as if he was an old man innocent of the taint's dark rebirth; as if he still bore the burden of the Chevalier plate, of responsibility, scrutiny, reputation. He had been the Hero of River Dane, the Teyrn of Gwaren, the Regent of Ferelden, and now he would be Ferelden's Warden-Commander, because that was where he was needed now. He would do his duty, as he always had. For Anora. For Alistair.

For Ferelden.

The man standing alone in the silent, sunset-lit room was no longer the hunter, the Rebel. He hadn't yet publicly assumed the mantle of Warden-Commander. For this moment he was just a worn-out survivor, a war veteran seeking a single breath of peace before his next long, lonely journey.

It was then that it hit him, full force: the echoing emptiness of his every sense and sensation, the lack of a warming, wanted presence, the silence in the taint. Alistair was not here, left behind in the crowd. Loghain was alone once more. As he had been when he let Rowan go, delivered her to an arranged marriage with Maric. As he had been when Maric had left him behind and sailed away.

Love was beautiful while it lasted. But sooner or later, love always clashed with responsibility, and it had always left him behind. It was a fact of life: if Loghain gave a damn about the greater good, then, inevitably, he would always be alone.

_So be it._

Loghain finished stripping out everything unneeded from his packs, then swung them back onto his shoulders, and buckled the Archdemon-fang sword about his waist.

Finally, he scooped up the First Warden's letter and threw the scroll into the fireplace. Impatient to cut short the pain of leaving, he waited only until the parchment caught and the flames flared yellow-bright, feeding greedily on the fateful orders that would exile him from his beloved homeland.

From his beloved daughter.

From his beloved.

As silent as a shadow, as unseen as the feared leader of the Night Elves, he slipped out of the room and into the gathering dark.

* * *

Alistair plucked a rose petal from his shoulder. It was dark red and wilted, with purple edges, and it smelled glorious and grand, just like the Denerim gardens.

_Ugh. This is all so wrong! Roses shouldn't ever be torn into petals and thrown away, they ought to be given, an unforgettable once-in-a-lifetime keepsake. A memory. _

_Roses are for romance, not royalty! And what am I still doing here? I'm not royalty! I'm not meant for any of this! _

Alistair's cheeks were sore from fake-grinning and his hand felt like it'd fall off anytime now from all the waving he'd had to do on the way from Denerim outskirts to the palace.

_Bleargh. I smell like Cailan. I probably look like Cailan too!_ _Loghain's definitely going to have a few choice words to say about that._

Only Loghain wasn't around to be displeased. He wasn't at the palace either. But Anora was.

In the throne room, dressed like a Queen - which she so completely, totally, rightly was - Anora looked as dangerous and distant as Alistair feared. He could only swallow down his unease and try not to fidget. In that moment - in her castle, surrounded by her guards and her servants and her subjects - Anora was like Morrigan and Flemeth and Wynne all in one, wrapped up in royal silk and silver glamour. Her hair was an excellent replacement for a golden crown, the way it shone in the sunset-lit hall.

_It's frog time for me. No spells needed. _A simple 'Off with his head!' would be enough to blast all Alistair's hope of any sort of happy ending into tiny, scorched, utterly miserable and awkward bits.

_Maker, I wish Solona was here! She was the only one of us who knew what to say to Anora. I can't even begin to come up with anything worthwhile. _

_But I've got to. I have to tell her. It's only fair._

"Um, we need to talk."

_Ouch. I should have probably addressed her as royalty. Your Majesty. Or is it My Queen? But I'm not planning to be her King-regent, or Consort, or whatever it's called. Though she doesn't know that yet. I wish there was some sort of royal protocol for this sort of thing! There probably is, if some poor sod ever put it in writing. Or if anyone ever actually lived through the experience long enough to tell about it!_

Thankfully, Anora nodded, dismissing the guards with a flick of one elegant hand. She rose with a rustle of satins, gliding toward the sunlit corridor leading from the throne room to the library. Alistair stumbled after her, trying to keep up but not close enough to step on her trailing skirts. Breathless, he swallowed against the drumming in his ears, but it did nothing to still the shudders of his heart leaping out of his chest into his throat.

In the deserted corridor striped with sunlight, Anora turned: a striking vision of gold and silver. "Well?"

_Andraste's grace. She's so proud. Gets it from him. _"I… I can't do this." Alistair stammered. _I've got to keep talking. How hard can this be? _He risked a glance into her eyes. The blue was softer than Loghain's sword-edge hue, but the intensity of focus was just the same. "I have to tell you."

_Here I go. _He inhaled. "I met someone." _Dungeons, any moment now. If I'm lucky._

Anora's eyebrow lifted in a look of mute inquiry, spiced with just a hint of cynicism. That, too, was an eerily familiar expression: so strange on this beautiful blonde woman instead of Loghain's familiar dark and craggy face. Anora's spine was arrow-straight, her chin lifted: her bearing was queenly, giving nothing away.

Nothing, unless you noticed the tiny hint of tightness at the corner of her rose-petal lips. It was so surreal, how even that almost-invisible quirk of a lip reminded him of Loghain. And not just any expression, but the one that crossed Loghain's face when he was hurt and trying to hide it, deny it, disclaim his pain until he could ignore it, convince himself it didn't matter, didn't exist.

Was Anora hurt? Offended? Angry? Her lips were so thin, and her stare as cold and glittering as an icicle. Alistair swallowed. It was like staring down a dragon, if dragons breathed ice instead of fire.

"How _delightful_ for you both," she snapped at last, in brittle tones. "Now, do you have anything else to confess before the… ceremony?"

_Ceremony… She still expects a wedding? _"I'm so sorry." Alistair licked dry lips, swallowed, willing his voice not to waver or crack or fail him completely. Willing his hands not to shake. "I can't marry you. I love someone. S-someone else."

"You selfish, brainless _boy! _Do you actually think that some meaningless roadside fling is more important than doing your duty?"

"It's Loghain."

_"What?"_

"I... I don't know why or how. We fought, and, and then we fought _together_ if you know what I mean, and we… we started to trust each other. Neither of us expected it. It just happened. Loghain - your father - he's... He saved my life and I saved his, I don't know how many times, actually, but a _lot_. I've got no idea how many darkspawn we killed, and he was in my head and under my skin and his shield was always at my back and we were perfect together, unstoppable. And then…" he drew a ragged breath at the memory, "then we got separated, and it all went to shit, and he nearly _died_, and I was so _desperate_, but even after he recovered he never said a single word of blame, even though it was all my _stupid _idea…" Alistair heaved a shuddering sigh and shoved his hand through the unruly mop of his hair, absently thinking '_Maker, this needs cutting_,' and then '_But I think he likes it long_,' and then shaking his head and wrestling his scattered thoughts back into some vague semblance of order. "And, see, we just worked out. Together." Alistair swallowed through a throat gone tight, expecting the worst any second now. But he was resigned. "I'm not going to lie to you," he breathed. "You deserve the truth. But I can't lose him. I won't. I can't marry you. If I did, it'd just be a lie. I've never loved anyone in my whole life before. Not as a lover. But I love him."

Alistair fell silent. He'd said all he could say, and now it was all up to Anora. He braced himself inwardly for accusations, imprisonment, summary execution: who knew what?

Anora gaped at him for a long second, and then she leaned forward, her brows lowered and her stare intent, and drew her breath as if to speak. Alistair closed his eyes, afraid of what may come next.

Instead, he heard a brief bark of laughter. So jarring and unexpected it was, it made Alistair jump. The moment was utterly surreal, insane. But then, he hadn't been sane since Loghain caught up to him on the edge of the Wilds. He had a feeling he'd never be the same.

"Um. Are you OK?" _Maybe she is, actually. Maybe laughter like that is some weird courtly code for utter dismissal. Or worse! A super-secret sign for the guards to come bursting through the door and drag me away. Has to be! Nothing else makes sense._

Anora looked back at him. For a brief second she was just human: younger than her years, unburdened by the weight of her royal title. "You look _so_ much like Mother."

"What?" Alistair couldn't believe what he was hearing. _Mother? _"Wait, _what_?" The presence of his own mother's locket was a real, solid weight under his shirt, against his skin.

Alistair expected an impatient stare, maybe rolled eyes, but instead Anora spoke, evenly and patiently. "My mother. Celia. I was six, maybe seven. She had that same expression on her face. Father left for Denerim again and she was left alone to explain why he wasn't around to put me to bed or tell me stories. So awkward. I didn't really understand and kept asking questions… I didn't see why the King needed him more than I did. And then for years after Mother was gone, I was afraid I'd have a stepmother, one day. Ironic. Turns out it's not a stepmother I have to worry about, it's my future husband leaving me. For my father."

"Yeah, um, that's sort of, er… Yeah, that's it." It was so hard to imagine the same voice that just shared a childhood story with him giving out a royal decree or announcing an execution. Perhaps his chances weren't so dim after all.

"I never expected Father'd meet someone now. Anyone at all, least of all you."

"Oh." Alistair bit his lip. "Sorry. Um. I mean, I'm not sorry we met, but - er, sorry, that… I'm not what you expected."

"Men never are." Anora parried tartly. "And you're not going to get off that easily. You," Anora ordered, "are going to explain the whole damned thing!"

"But I just said..."

"Oh no," she cut him off mid-sentence. "Not to me. To the Landsmeet. First thing tomorrow morning. Isn't it _lucky _all the nobles are already in town," she added, "something about a wedding." She folded her arms and gave him a slight, ironic smirk. "Good luck."

* * *

One foot in front of the other, Alistair carried himself out of the throne room.

_Got to breathe. Got to relax. Right, first things first: find Loghain. Next, figure out the Landsmeet together. He'll know what to do. _Alistair asked the first servant he saw where Loghain's quarters were, then rushed up the stairs and to that wing of the palace. He knocked, but opened the door at once, too impatient to wait to be admitted, calling out "Loghain?"

Silence.

Silence and an empty room.

He strode in, searching with frantic gaze and shaking hands, but no matter how he looked, he was still alone.

_It's obvious someone has been here though. Recently too. _There was a familiar glimpse of dragon bone on the desk. That collection of curved, carved pieces, now all strung up together. For several nights on the way back, he'd asked Loghain about the smooth plates of bone under his carving knife, but the stubborn sod never let a single hint slip so eventually Alistair had given up asking. Now here they were, all in a circle, looking like a…

Looking like they'd fit Alistair precisely, right above where the collar of his splintmail left his neck bare. Alistair picked up the sleek carving, and looped it around his neck. The bone was warm, as if it still hoarded, dragonlike, the heat of the campfire and of Loghain's careful hands.

Something Anora told him about her mother's expression rang in his mind like a bell. '_Father left for Denerim again and she was left alone to explain why he wasn't around to put me to bed or tell me stories.' _

_Where is Loghain? He wouldn't… He can't just leave town! Not without saying good bye! _

But then Alistair's panicked glance strayed back to the desk, where he'd found the carved dragonbone. It had been sitting beside … Alistair's heart sank, as abruptly as if he'd been punched in his stomach.

Loghain's map case.

Alistair snatched it up, fumbled to open it, tipped out the contents carefully into shaking hands. _They're all here. Not a single one is missing. He left them all!_

His breathing hitched as he resealed the map case, set it aside. The sun chose that moment to dip below the windowsill, darkening much of the room. As if in answer, the blue of lyrium glimmered from an armor stand in the corner of the room.

Alistair stumbled toward it, knuckling his eyes like a chantry orphan, alone and overwrought.

The Hero of River Dane armor was no surprise: Loghain hadn't had it with him on the journey so it would naturally have been left in his quarters. But the light came from the armor's side, escaping from artfully cut holes in the openwork scabbard. Alistair sniffed once, loud in the quiet, and watched his own hands reach out, as if watching from the Fade. They drew out a strangely sculpted sword, runes etched along its blade in lyrium that burned in the gloom.

Just like it had burned in the gloom of Ostagar.

Maric's sword.

"_I'd know it anywhere."_ The memory of Loghain's rapt voice, of his blue eyes vivid in the eerie runeglow, was doubly poignant in this moment.

_There's no way Loghain would leave this sword behind. No way, unless he's planning to leave, never to return. But where could he possibly go?_

Alistair's panicked gaze darted hither and yon, searching, desperate. The sudden snap of a coal in the fireplace drew his gaze. The coals were still glowing with heat. Curled black ashes covered them, and in their midst a charred scrap of parchment fluttered like a broken-off butterfly wing.

Alistair raced over to the fireplace and fell to his knees on the hearth, squinting at the heat on his face as he reached carefully with his blade to scoop up the precious piece. He blew at the smoking edges.

The scrap was part of a note or letter, in a learned but unfamiliar hand. The ink looked dark, not faded. Only a few words were visible:

_**... ordere... ...mediately ... at Montsimmard.**_

and further down,

_**... Weisshau...**_

_That last one's got to be Weisshaupt, where the Wardens were founded. The other one sounds Orlesian. …Where've I heard of that before? ...Duncan! When he was teaching me about the Wardens in other countries, he said in Orlais the Wardens are mostly in Val Royeaux and Montsimmard._

_But that means Loghain is..._

_No. No no no. He can't leave Ferelden! He can't leave __**me!**_

But all the denial in the world couldn't stand a chance against the knowledge that hit him, as chilling and as final as an icicle through his heart.

_But he __**has.**_

Alistair's knees thudded on the wooden floor. He felt the warm, wet tracks across his cheeks and didn't hold back the sobs, as harsh and raw as the empty, echoing Taint.

* * *

The bed was unfamiliar. Too soft compared to Alistair's bedroll, too high compared to any bed he slept in before, too cold without a second body next to him. _How can anyone sleep in a bed like this? _The sheets were fine and feathery and they clung to Alistair's legs and rustled like Anora's dress as he tossed and turned, giving up on trying to be comfortable.

_I should sleep, I really should. The Chantry bells rung midnight ages ago. _But Alistair was still awake. In the dark, the pang of hurt in his throat was a dry, dull ache seeping into his every bone and limb.

He never did like castles. Especially in Denerim. He could feel the cold and the dark inside out, he could hear the ringing silence echo beneath its stone walls, and felt its chill even if he curled up around his pillow. Despite the lavish tapestries and gilded carvings, the tower room felt more like a prison than a place of luxury.

He was alone. And the nightmare just kept on coming. _What good can I do in a fight if I'm abandoned to fight something I can't possibly win? _

_I bet he told himself I'm a necessary loss. Like Cailan._

_When it was just us against the Darkspawn, he was different. I could trust him with my life. Or I thought I could._

_Not anymore._

_I can't trust anyone, not anyone here._

Something wet and cold touched his fingertips. Dog's twitching nose nuzzled up into his palm. A soft, warm whine tickled his skin, conveying everything Alistair didn't dare express. Didn't dare even admit to himself.

He did have someone to trust after all.

"Yeah. I miss him too." _So very much. _He shifted in bed and patted the empty sheets. "Come on, boy. Up you go."

The mattress shifted and sagged under the mabari's weight, and Alistair drew the broad-shouldered, panting beast into a long, warm hug.

"I'm here. I've got you."

Odd how the simple act of giving comfort to another creature was comforting in itself. Right before dawn, Alistair slept at last, restless and feverish, his nose buried in the velvet warmth of a Mabari hound's ear.


	19. The Landsmeet

**The Landsmeet**

* * *

Alistair remembered that one nightmare very well: the all-evil, all-embarrassing, ever-so-not funny kind of dream that showed up when you least expected it. Alistair always woke up thrashing with a mortified gasp, drenched in cold sweat, tangled in his bedroll, and suddenly very, very relieved that he wasn't still cowering completely naked in front of the Grand Cleric and all the Sisters._ Brr!_

That's what attention did to Alistair: nothing good whatsoever, in dreams or reality. Honestly, being thrust into the spotlight and expected to give a perfect speech was just about as natural to Alistair as leading. And leading, as Alistair knew from personal experience, led to getting lost and being stranded without any pants. That first step into the public gaze felt exactly like losing all your armor and your weapons, right before having to fight for your life.

Only it wasn't a dream anymore, and he was really here, in Denerim Palace, with the entire Landsmeet watching his every move.

The last time he'd entered this hall, Alistair had been following Solona to the Landsmeet, had watched her challenge Loghain to a duel. The two of them had circled each other in the middle of the hall like stormclouds in a whirlwind. Solona's bristling, unpredictable magic struck Loghain's armor and shield: sparks against steel, magic against might. It was breathtaking, in so many ways, to be there and see them clash one on one: the lightning of her staff, the thunder of his war cry. Alistair had screamed his bloodlust until his throat hurt:_ Kill him! Now!_

Now, his throat hurt just to remember it.

But no matter how much he'd yelled, Solona refused to kill, nor did she let Alistair do it.

At the time, that decision shattered Alistair's world, drove him beyond rational thought. That refusal to execute the traitor was the final straw. In the heat of the moment, unable to think what else he could do, Alistair walked away from it all. From Solona, from his responsibilities, from the Wardens' oath. He abandoned her, surrendered his chance to help her fight. So she carried on her mission without him, fought the Archdemon until her very last breath, and won at the cost of her own life. And Loghain was right there with her all the way, fighting by her side. Loghain. Not Alistair. How was that fair?

_Breathe,_ Alistair reminded himself. _Keep walking. One step at a time. Don't stumble off the carpet. I have to make it to the center of the room and not collapse. Loghain somehow thought I'm capable of leading a country. This is just some people gawking at me from balconies. Nothing to be scared of, not like darkspawn,_ he told himself. Now if only he could make himself _believe _it.

The carved dragonbone around his neck felt protective, strangely comforting: like a steadying hand cupping his nape, stroking it calmly as he walked. It must have been the warm smooth weight of the whittled bone, or the way it moulded snugly to the sensitive skin of his throat. He felt sturdier; his shoulders squarer, stronger. The armored collar buoyed his spirits like a crown: the only crown he would accept.

He looked up at the balconies that lined the hall. There must've been at least five dozen nobles, all waiting for him. For his speech. For a royal announcement.

_I've got no idea what to say._

Alistair shuddered. _Guess there's only one thing l can say._

_The truth._

The hall seemed even bigger than Alistair remembered: a cavernous space, vast enough to remind him of the Deep Roads' ominous thaigs. The hall's strip of carpet stretched dwindling into the distance, perspective narrowing it to a ribbon by the time it reached the dais. He sighed and wondered how many steps it would take him to walk all the way along it.

On both sides of that carpeted aisle, the balconies were crowded with nobles, a murmuring mass of brightly colored silks and satins, jewels and brocade, gilded armor and ceremonial helmets. On the far end of the hallway stood an empty throne - Anora's - surrounded by the ever present royal guard.

The trumpets sounded his arrival. The crowd breathed, quieted, in expectation.

_I owe them all an explanation. Most of all Anora. No loose ends._

_Loghain would want me to. For Ferelden. _

With a brisk click-clack of claws on stone, a mabari trotted into the hall and paused in perfect parade stance by Alistair's side; a strong, stalwart presence. The finely-trained mabari's steadfast loyalty silently proclaimed Alistair's worth to every Fereldan there.

_Thank you, Dog. _

A warm wet nose nuzzled Alistair's hand in support.

_Here we go..._

Alistair stepped forward into the light. _This is it._

* * *

"Thank you, for your attendance. All of you," Alistair's voice rang out, loud enough to reach the high ceilings and echo back.

Arl Eamon looked down to the Main Hall from the balcony. The high windows cast slanting streaks of morning sun across the carpet, where the future king now stood. _Thank Andraste, Maric's byblow has finally turned up safe and sound. I suppose blood will tell in the end, even in a feckless brat like him. _

_In times like these, blood matters most. Noble blood, __**Theirin **__blood: the only right blood for Ferelden's throne! _

_At last! _After years of enduring the regency of that filthy commoner and his upstart bitch of a daughter, here was a sight for sore eyes: Alistair Theirin, addressing the Landsmeet as future King. Alistair Theirin, claiming the throne._ All that time I had to ignore the whispers, the rumours, and all of Isolde's sniping; all those years I put up with that useless little bastard have finally borne fruit!_

"You've gathered here today to see me crowned."

_Yes! Damn right I did! High time for Ferelden to have a proper king. He'll need an advisor, naturally, and guide him I will. I've been planning for this for so long. Who better than I, to help him fulfill his potential? Who else was willing to wait decades, to do whatever it takes to get him on the throne? Certainly not Loghain's puppet of a daughter. No. Alistair knows not to accept any advice from a jumped-up shrew like her; I brought him up better than that! It's obvious, I'm the only one capable of grooming Maric's beardless bastard into a proper, biddable figurehead. _

_Alistair belongs to me. My fosterling. My project. My doing. My hand and my word. I'm the closest thing to a father Alistair will ever know. _Eamon looked around with a well-deserved look of pride on his face, daring the Arls to meet his stare, as Alistair's voice grew lower, deeper, but still carried, crisp and clear, through the breathless silence of the hall.

"But I'm not here to just accept a crown. I'm here to talk with you all about the crown. And I'm not speaking to you as a king, or even as a consort-to-be. I'm speaking as your countryman, and as your peer." At that moment, with his shoulders squared and his head held high, Alistair looked every bit the king he deserved to be, despite his modest words. _Maric may have even been proud of him now, as far as it's possible to feel pride in the unfortunate byproduct of careless fornication with a servant wench. But despite of what I had to work with, I groomed him into a worthy successor to the throne, instead of that traitor's daughter. _It was a compromise to allow Anora on the throne along with Alistair when Alistair was clearly the only true royal, but given time to work on Alistair, even that compromise would prove temporary. _Alistair will certainly come to see, as Cailan had seen, the common sense of putting away a barren queen._

As if he'd heard Eamon's thoughts, and wanted to argue against them, Alistair's voice rose again, spiking sharply as he waved toward the throne. "Take a look at your Queen. Look at her! Is she not the ruler we all want for Ferelden? Is she not worthy of her crown? Is she not a great ruler?"

_Oh, please! _Eamon ground his teeth. _Enough of this tripe! She's already agreed to this farce! You don't have to sing that cow's praises, you just have to marry her, and keep up appearances long enough to get either an heir or a divorce. My sister Rowan did her duty to Maric, which is more than that frigid bitch Anora did for Rowan's son._

"Your majesty," Alistair gave Anora a brief bow. "No one deserves to rule just because of blood. The Fereldan throne has always been a matter of merit, never granted purely because of blind, hidebound inheritance. In our country, who one's parents are has never mattered more than one's own ability to rule wisely and well. Anora has proven her worth as the ruler of Ferelden, time and again. And that's something no-one else here can claim." Alistair raked the nobles' balcony with a challenging glance, before he gave a sudden, wry grin. "I know _I_'ve never even ruled a farmer's hut."

_Ugh! Either I underestimated his acting skill, or he might actually be smitten by Loghain's prize pet puppet. Alistair is too gullible for his own good, he always was. Exactly the softhearted sort of king the peasants would want._

Eamon smirked knowingly. _And perhaps that softheartedness - or softheadedness - makes him just the king I need, to follow my expert advice. It's early days yet, he only arrived back in civilization yesterday! I'll have years, decades to work on him, wean him off Anora's teats and shape him to something useful. He's used to listening to me, his father-in-all-but-blood. _

_Ohh, to finally be the one left holding the leash of a leader! To guide the new era of Ferelden ascendancy, to rule behind the throne, safe from the fickle whims of commoners... With time. With proper persuasion he might even repay all the trouble it was, taking him in in the first place. After all, Alistair was always good at just one thing:_

_Following orders._

Alistair's declaration that he hadn't ruled anything had been met with an uneasy murmur from the audience. He faced that unsettled reaction squarely. "I've been too _busy_ to rule even a farmer's hut. You all know I'm a Grey Warden. And that means a lot more than just wearing a griffin uniform or," there was a flicker like a scowl or a wince across Alistair's face, gone almost before it began, "or getting nagging letters from some old man in Weisshaupt."

He took a deep breath, raised his head so the torchlight fell clear on his face as he looked up into the balconies, gaze moving from one noble's face to the next. "It even means more than having another long history of heroes and legends to live up to. The ritual we all undergo to become Grey Wardens does more to our bodies than let us sense darkspawn, and make us strong and fast and tough enough to kill them. It does more than protect us from disease and aging and the taint. All those physical benefits come at a price." His lips thinned into a grimly determined look as he finished, "The ritual also makes us, it made _me,_ permanently sterile."

The balconies were awash in dismayed mutterings before Alistair spoke that last fateful word; the moment it left his lips the nobles erupted in uproar.

Eamon was no more immune to shock than anyone else. In one blow Alistair had ruined years of carefully cherished plans for guiding Alistair's heirs into advantageous political marriages, so that Eamon could extend his influence in future over more thrones than Ferelden's. Worst of all was the knowledge that he, Eamon, hadn't stopped that Rivaini bastard Duncan when he might have had the chance. Shaking with the physical intensity of his outrage, he leaned over the balcony and shouted "NO!" at the top of his lungs.

But Eamon's was only one raised voice amid bedlam. Merely calling for silence had almost no impact at all. It took several clarions on the trumpets, swords drawn among the guards tasked with keeping order, and a flurry of full-throated barking from a bristle-furred Mabari warhound, before the din subsided enough for Alistair to make himself heard.

"I wish I could tell you it's not so, but the truth is, I can't." Alistair's stare traveled the balconies, until at last it came to rest squarely on Eamon, drawn perhaps by Eamon's cry. Alistair's expression was far too earnest and intense for that eye contact to be random. "I'm sorry, but we all have to get over this obsession with the Theirin bloodline, because no matter what happens, that bloodline ends. Here. With me. So, now, we need to stop chasing something we can't have, and be grateful for what we do have already. We've already got better than a mouldy history and a family tree with no future. Our country _has _better! Right now! Right here!"

_Oh fucking hell, no! This can't be Alistair's own doing. He's not clever enough to come up with it all by himself. What did that bitch do to win him over, get on her knees and suck him off like a common whore, while he practiced this pretty speech to appease the Landsmeet? Either she's leading him around by his cock, or Loghain's got some sort of hold over him, blackmail or some other threat. At least it'd explain why that treasonous peasant's nowhere to be seen._

In a determined tone which chilled Eamon's spine, Alistair continued: "... Ferelden's had the best for a while now. In case anyone hasn't noticed, Anora's been running the country on her own, and doing a damn good job of it too, for _years_, while King Cailan was off shaking hands and kissing babies."

The timing was too perfect to be unplanned, as Anora rose from the throne, approaching Alistair slowly but as inevitably as the blade of an executioner's axe. Her features were composed, calm. To Eamon, it was a porcelain mask over smugness. "Alistair Theirin. We have all heard you speak, and I thank you for your words of support. In accordance with those words, is it your will now, to swear formally before this Landsmeet that neither you -" she paused for a breath, "nor your heirs, current or future - have any claim on this throne or this crown, now and forever?"

"I swear," Alistair replied in firm, ringing tones. He might have flicked another momentary glance up at Eamon's balcony, before he muttered in a wry undertone, "Not as though heirs are likely, or as though I'd even been brought up for the job."

Anora's voice rang out, clear as a chantry bell at a funeral, tolling a death knell for all of Eamon's hopes. "Let the court records note that on this day, Alistair Theirin, in complete and coherent understanding, of sober mind and in full health, has sworn on behalf of himself and his heirs, to relinquish all claims to the Fereldan throne and lands, and all associated royal entitlements, promises and duties. Accordingly, the royal engagement between us is now void." Her voice, while still clear, held a warmer note as she continued, "From this day, Grey Warden Alistair, go forth with my blessing and the blessing of the people of Ferelden, as a free man, to fulfill your sacred vow to the Grey Wardens as you see fit. Your duty to Ferelden has been more than paid in full. Ferelden will continue to revere you and your fellow Grey Wardens for our deliverance from the Blight and the Archdemon, and we will repay your sacrifices in our defense as best we can, with military alliance and monetary support."

"Whew." Alistair palmed his hair back from his face, looking more and more like a peasant to Eamon's eyes, "Wow. Well, looks like you've got everything under control here." He bowed. "Thank you, your majesty. I, and the Grey Wardens, will not forget Ferelden's needs."

Anora inclined her head in a gracious nod of acceptance. "Thank you, Warden Alistair. Ferelden salutes you."

Applause sprung up, here and there among the galleries, building spontaneously until it swept the hall. Alistair raised his head and hands, and Eamon watched him soaking up the praise, for all the world like a dog being patted.

A recessional fanfare played, the trumpet notes bright and triumphant, and gladly taking the cue, Alistair made his exit as quickly as protocol allowed.

After a decorous pause, the nobles of Landsmeet filed out in due order of precedence, flanked by the usual escorting guards.

As Eamon trudged from the hall, understanding of his predicament sank slowly in: a leaden weight like quicksand dragging at his limbs. He knew just how much more difficult it would be now to wear down support for that peasant's daughter, when Alistair had voluntarily given her the throne, and then had publicly given her his support. _It'd be like killing a dragon. Or an Archdemon. Or a darkspawn horde._

_Well, if a bastard boy, a mage bitch and a traitorous poacher can do such things,_ Eamon thought grimly as he left the other Arls and made for the part of the castle where he knew Alistair had been quartered, _a nobleman such as I must certainly try._

* * *

"Alistair! Wait."

"Arl Eamon!" Alistair grinned and turned around to face his old mentor. "It's good to see -"

Eamon's hand flicked up in a curt, silencing gesture, and suddenly Alistair felt like a young boy caught stealing sugar cakes from the kitchen. "Can you _be_ any more irresponsible?" Eamon snapped, white-lipped with fury. "Who put you up to this? Anora?"

"Wha- what d'you mean?" Alistair choked on sudden discomfort.

"Do you have any idea what you've done?" Eamon's grizzled brows drew together in a heavy scowl, but his fiercest glare was nothing to Alistair, compared to the merest glint of annoyance in Loghain's icy eyes. "You've made irreparable concessions, for no reason, in front of the entire Landsmeet! You handed Ferelden over to that peasant's whelp! For nothing!"

Eamon's anger was as startling to Alistair as an arrow from ambush. "It's my choice! I made it. And don't call them peasants!"

"You're right, I won't call them peasants; proper peasants know their place! They're filthy traitors! Regicides!"

Something tense and hot and possessive rose up in Alistair's veins and shook him to his core; the protective urge snapped suddenly taut enough to draw blood, like the blade-fine string of Loghain's bow. Alistair had to fight to uncurl his fingers from the stone-hard fists they formed. His fingertips shook with the effort of restraint, as he changed the trajectory of one raised hand away from Eamon, and brushed his fingertips against his collar instead, drawing calm from its smooth protection.

"Anora," he declared in slow, deliberate tones, "is the rightful ruler of Ferelden, and has been for years. And as for Loghain," he lifted his chin proudly, feeling dragonbone shifting against his throat, "He is my Warden-Commander, and he's a hero to Ferelden: hero of the Blight and the Rebellion both." He leaned forward, looming over Eamon and holding his gaze with the flat, hard stare of a Warden: an uncanny warrior who has slaughtered countless darkspawn. "I trust Loghain Mac Tir with my life." His voice was quiet and cold and final. "**Never** call him a traitor."

Eamon shrank back briefly, his eyes widening in a flash of fear, his mouth gaping in utter shock. But then he rallied, expression taut as a mask. "What didthey promise you for your allegiance?" he muttered in low tones that were probably intended to be coaxing. "Gold? Armies? Lyrium? It's Lyrium, isn't it?" The tension in Eamon's expression shifted to a conniving smirk. "I'll double their deal."

That last offer was the final straw for Alistair. _Eamon let the Templars take me, knowing damn well how they recruit their followers. And now he thinks I'm stupid enough to want to become an addict, or he thinks I already am addicted! _It was Alistair's turn to let the slow burn of contempt rush through him fully: the same contempt he saw so clearly behind Eamon's offer. A mirthless chuckle escaped him, that Eamon could be so blind to think that any mere bribe would change his mind, let alone one so insulting. "There's nothing you could possibly offer me that I could give a damn about. I don't need, or want, anything at all from you. Good bye, Eamon."

"You **fool!** You could have had the world, do you even realise that? I'd have made you a legend! They'd have told tales of you through the ages, and you're throwing it **all** away! For what? Duty? For Anora? For Duncan's memory? Nothing, no one is worth that much, when you could be immortalized in history!"

_How dare he? _Alistair's lips thinned, as he fought not to yell out all the harsh and brutally honest words on the tip of his tongue. But he knew now that Eamon was too blinded by his own ambition. Nothing Alistair could say would make him understand, so Alistair turned away from Eamon and just fired over one shoulder, "Immortality is overrated. And I've got far better things to do with my life than continue this conversation."

But Eamon had all the loud persistence of the yapping Orlesian dogs kept as pets by those nobles who couldn't get a single Mabari to stand them. "If you walk away from this catastrophe you just caused, without even attempting to get that Maker-damned throne back, I swear you will never be welcome at Redcliffe again!"

Alistair sighed. He was tired of speaking, tired of arguing, so very tired of Denerim, where politics and flowery speeches ruled the day and backroom deals and backstabbing ruled the night. Come to think of it, this place was well suited for Arl Eamon. "Not that it's any of your business, but I'm not going anywhere near Redcliffe. I'm going after Loghain. And I'm going to tell that stubborn sod what I've told the Landsmeet, and then I'm going to convince him it was the right thing to say. Because that old fool still thinks that he's not good enough to keep me and that our duty to Ferelden comes above all else." Alistair swallowed back common sense and kept talking. "But I'm **not** Loghain, and I can't just give up on someone I love."

"Love?" Eamon's face went completely white, his eyes round with horror that, for the first time, actually made him stumble over his words. "You… you're… you mean to tell me you **let** that… that he… that you… That you're his **catamite**? Are you MAD?"

"Mad? I've finally gone **sane**!" Alistair laughed, relief filling him from head to toe. Eamon knew, he finally knew exactly why Alistair wasn't suited for the throne, and he now knew exactly what Alistair was, and despite the insults, the spitting bile, and it felt so freeing to say it to someone, anyone, even Eamon. _I love Loghain! I don't care who knows!_ "I'm going after him, and there's nothing you or anyone else can do or say to stop me."

"That treacherous snake will be the death of you, just like he was for Cailan. Mark my words!"

"Darkspawn killed Cailan. I know. I **saw**. Loghain and I went back to the battlefield together. We saw the bodies, Cailan's and his army, and we saw true treachery and murder, and we fought against it. And Loghain saved my life, and I saved his." Alistair drew a breath in silence and added softly, "And I'm not about to waste what's left of either our lives."

"Maker preserve us all from your madness! You've ruined everything, thrown away the Crown, and for what? A, a, ..." Eamon spluttered, beside himself.

It was clear that Eamon thought Alistair beyond even the Maker's help. Alistair was not even included in the 'us' that Eamon thought needed preserving. He was nothing to Eamon now. Nothing at all...

"... A disgusting perversion!"

_Oh._

Alistair was mistaken. He _was_ something to Eamon after all. He was… that.

Really, there was nothing more to be said. So Alistair just turned and strode away, and hoped that their paths would never cross again.

* * *

_One, two… One foot in front of the other... _

As he walked up to his rooms, Alistair kept going through the motions. Maybe if he kept moving, it wouldn't hurt so much to remember Eamon's words replayed in his head. _'Are you mad?' 'Disgusting perversion!'_ _Ugh. Don't think about that. It doesn't matter. It shouldn't matter! _When he'd been wounded and short on salve, without a healer around for miles, Alistair made it a habit to count his breath. At some point, he knew, five hundred breaths, or five thousand, the pain would grow dull and distant. The fresh wounds would stop stinging at every step, and wouldn't remind Alistair about his mistakes at every turn and all would be better then.

Loghain's maps filled almost half of Alistair's small backpack. He didn't take much else: the weight would only slow him down, and he had to hurry.

It was time to leave Denerim for good.

He kept counting his breaths as he packed. Slow inhale, slightly longer exhale, just like the Templars taught him, to fill the pauses between the chants. _That's it. _He fought his own body to hold the deepest breath he had yet today. _Time to withdraw. Time to forget._

Duncan too had taught Alistair to watch his breathing during their sparring sessions. Alistair followed his heart over his head, Duncan said, and Alistair needed to stop relying on neither in order to survive. _Breathe, listen to the taint, let your instincts take over._

_In. Hold. Out. Pause. Breathe._

Alistair thought of the vow to the Grey Wardens that Loghain and he shared. He thought of Loghain following him to near-death, and of his own promise to come back with Loghain to Denerim.

"_I promised you I'd come back here, and I have. But I never promised to stay,"_ he argued with imaginary Loghain in his thoughts. _"You know me better than that. And anyway, you'd've done the same!"_

_No, he wouldn't. He's Loghain. Ferelden means everything to him. And when it comes to a choice between Ferelden and something else, Ferelden wins, every single time._

But Alistair's imagination, wild as it was, had always kept him safe and secure, warm and nourished. Imagination had been a safer, more welcoming home than reality, ever since he was a boy staring up at the dark ceiling of the stables, making up stories to keep himself entertained. In Alistair's imagination, there were no obligations, no Warden summons, no vows to Ferelden, and Loghain loved him enough to choose him over everything else.

_Just this once._

So bittersweet and warm that felt, Alistair felt that heat in the corner of his eye, a prickling tightness in his throat. It made loneliness slightly easier to bear. It forged his determination into a burning need.

Dog was in the kitchens when Alistair went down to stock up on supplies: a bag of oats and barley, a pouch full of salt, dried fruit for himself and cured meat for him and his companion. He peeked under the table where he first spotted the horseshoe-shaped limp sprawl of Dog's hind legs. "Hey there!"

There was no movement - not a wag of a stumpy tail, not a twitch of a padded paw. Alistair frowned. It was plain wrong to see any Mabari hound so miserable in a palace full of food. _Clearly moping. And I know why._ _Yeah, I miss him too. _"Come on, boy!" Alistair sat down in front of the corner where Dog had settled and patted the warm, fuzzy ear. The hound glanced at Alistair and his barrel chest heaved in a sigh, but he didn't otherwise move. Alistair checked his pocket for a thin strip of leather that he had discovered tying together Loghain's maps. It looked well worn, probably used to tie Loghain's braids at some point: it was just the right length for that.

He offered it up toward Dog's twitching, curious nose. "Does it smell like him?" For a second, he was jealous of mabari noses, so much more sensitive than Alistair's own, which was only good to tell last year's cheese from fresh.

Dog obviously was oblivious to Alistair's troubles, as he peered from under the table. His ears pricked up as he snuffled at the leather, then he looked up at Alistair and gave a single, enthusiastic bark.

"Do you think you can track him?"

Dog's double bark sounded as affirmative as anything.

"Well then, let's go for a run! Just the two of us! Don't you want to go outside? Yeah! All the way out of town. That's it. That's **it**! Good Dog! Good boy!"

That night, one plainly dressed traveller and a mabari left Denerim as quietly as possible, heading northwest, toward Montsimmard.

Dog pranced excitedly down the road, paws flinging chunks of mud from the well-trodden earth. Alistair's feet were light and his strides were buoyant with the energy of finally **doing **something to combat the misery of being alone.

They had a lot of ground to cover to catch up to Loghain. The prospect would daunt a less traveled man, a lesser man.

It didn't stop Alistair's whole face from lighting up in an anticipatory smile as he put the stifling labyrinth of Denerim behind him and hit the road once more.


	20. A Ward for a Warden

**CHAPTER 20: A Ward for a Warden**

* * *

_Bzzt!_ A bumblebee zoomed past Dog's head. He flicked an ear at it and sneezed. Back there, in the shadow of the Big Stone Kennel, all the tracks were covered in round smooth rocks like dry riverbeds, and the smell of people and dust and horses was everywhere. Now instead of rocks there was good cool mud with sandy chunks, and grassy clumps, and worms wriggling all over!

Dog trotted on, lolling his tongue out in a grin. _Proper mud! Squishy! Soft on the paws. Lots of fun smells. Grass all around, dewy grass with mice and grasshoppers and sticks and pawprints. Rabbit tracks! Right there. Fresh. Large, too. Fat juicy rabbits! _

_Yum! _Dog paused to pant and lick his chops. _Can't hunt, not yet, got to take the young one to the pack leader. _

_Pup's lost again._

_Keep up, the Leader went this way! Hey! Hey! _Dog turned around and barked impatiently at his ward. _Where did Pup wander off to? Oh, back there. Always so slow, with that hard and heavy shell and only two legs to walk on. My fleas move faster than him!_

_Pup is stiffer than a bronto in that shell of his, can't even curl up in a ball to reach where his tail should be. At least he's got a good collar now, almost as good as mine. Maybe in a few seasons from now, he'll be able to track packmates on his own. He already knows how to fight. Leader should mark him with colored mud for the hunt, like a proper warrior: dark trails down his ribs, two paw prints on his haunches. But Pup would probably only huff, happy to be scratched. He'd flop on his back, and pant and drool and show his belly in no time._

_Can't make a fearsome warrior out of a wriggly pup without even a tail to wag. He's still got a lot to learn. Two barks short of a howl for a proper war hound, but not bad for a two-paw puppy. Maybe if he didn't carry that chunk of hard stale milk with him, he could smell the Leader's tracks himself._ Dog barked again, wagging encouragingly. _It's easy, look, Pup, just do what I do: put your nose to the ground and follow this trail! It's still good and strong, it hasn't even rained yet! I know you sniffed him all over lots of times, so you must remember how he smells._

_Oh well, maybe later. He'll learn one day. Every time I tried to help him clean his nose for tracking, he always pushed me away. But he can't lick his own muzzle clean, his tongue doesn't even reach his nose. I've got to teach him to follow a scent, in case he ever runs off without me. He'll never find his way back without a wet clean nose._

_Up ahead, Pup! One of my trees. You've got to mark your hunting land at every big tree, or others will claim it. Here! You can sniff the bark down here and smell my mark, even though I left it many rains ago. The Leader wasn't with us then. We were still with the pack Mother and the big noisy herd we all hunted with before the Dragon took Mother. We had a good hunt together. Many tasty kills._

_The Leader went through here, but he didn't stop to hunt. Hmmm. Wait. He turned from the trail here, and went his own way, over the grass and right through the trees. Huh, where'd he go next? Where where Where where WHERE?_

_OH! Over that stream. Sneaky Leader! Didn't want to be trailed. Turn here, Pup! Here! Here! Up the hill! Watch it! Don't you smell those burrs in the grass? Itchy, worse than bugs. They stick to your side in clumps, and break up when you bite them out. Even you, with those stalky heron legs, will be scratching your sides. The Leader isn't here to groom your fur._

Pup was making noises again...

_Now what are you barking about?_ Dog cocked his head to the side, listening. _Humans! They bark and huff and yelp and whine all the time. Just one of them makes as many different noises as a whole lake full of frogs. All those sounds and all that panting, no wonder they're so slow. They've probably never got enough breath left for a proper run, much less a decent howl. _

"Are you even looking for him, boy? Come on." Pup grumbled as he trailed a few steps behind Dog. "Stop chasing squirrels! Let's get back on the road."

_No! No! No! _Dog barked right back at Pup and shouldered him in the leg, herding him in the right direction._ He didn't go by the human trail, he went through here! _Dog leapt over a fallen trunk. _Here! This way! Hurry!_

The wind rustled in the tree tops. The crows cawed overhead. _Come on, Pup! This is our trail! Stop your huffing and puffing, you'll fall behind._

"Oh, fine. But if you get us lost, we won't have time to stop for dinner."

_Dinner? You won't catch any rabbits without my help! This way! Don't wander off gathering fleas. _Dog twisted around the branches with the casual trot of a born tracker. _Here, through the bush._ _Don't whine! We'll find him soon, and you'll be pounced and licked clean and I'll get some rest, and we'll all have a big juicy bone to gnaw on._

* * *

A mabari tracker on a mission was always a menace to keep up with, but Dog was on a whole new level. Since morning, Alistair had ducked pine branches, climbed over fallen logs, rolled downhill, and - he was pretty sure - landed arse-first on a fire ant nest.

On the open road, away from the stone walls and stony faces of Denerim, Alistair could now appreciate the irony of the situation. _I worried the most about confessing to Anora, but she was the one who took the news best. Even wished me luck. Of course, I need all the luck I can get._

Just before Alistair left town, Anora had taken him aside for another quick chat. The conversation was quite enlightening, and nowhere near as scary as it could've been. It looked like he'd been wrong about Anora all along. He'd never expected her, of all people, to give her blessing to an ex-fiance to court her father, much less follow it up with such a surprising offer.

_Wait 'til I tell him about her generous goodwill gift!_

* * *

Loghain avoided the dangers of the Wending Wood, leaving the merchant-frequented Pilgrim's Path for a much smaller trail leading toward the good hunting of the Hafter River valley and the Knotwood Hills beyond. He settled for the night in a clearing which was too heavily wooded to be Alistair's Clearing, but which had the same crisp, clean feel in its sun-warmed tree branches and its wind-blown grass. This place looked as pristine as if the Blight had never come to Ferelden. The moss-covered bark of the young oaks had never known the scourge of fire; climbing ivy was the only invader clinging to their branches. It was a reassuring reminder that some parts of his beloved country had kept their beauty and remained untouched by the horrors of wartime, unmarred by darkspawn armies, unbroken by invaders' attacks.

_Got to get some rest, or I'll never make it to Montsimmard. Be nice to get a few hours' sleep, just by way of a change._

All was quiet in the wilderness around the camp, well away from merchant wagons. He must've been the only man around for miles. The tiny, smokeless fire burned down to ash, and Loghain leaned against the tree trunk, sword and bow in each hand as he finally nodded off. His first sleep in two days was patchy and restless.

In the morning, Loghain drifted slowly back toward wakefulness, groggy as hell from the broken night just past, and the sleepless nights that had gone before. Sunlight was warm on his closed eyelids and the forest was quiet, peaceful. Even the taint felt calm, a reassuring, friendly presence. A barely-formed thought drifted drowsily through Loghain's subconscious: _Alistair's gone hunting._

He jolted to full wakefulness at the sound of a mabari's greeting bark.

Instantly, the memory of leaving them behind in Denerim hit him with a heart-pounding rush and he was up, snatching weapons and pack, sprinting soundlessly for the thickest undergrowth beyond the clearing's border.

He'd barely made it to hiding before Dog galloped into the clearing, followed by an all too familiar, strapping young warrior. To Loghain's ears, both Alistair and Dog were making about as much noise as a platoon in full plate.

Loghain's desperate, last-ditch effort at concealment went about as well as could be expected. The mabari paused, snuffled at the tree Loghain had rested his back against, then bounded right for him, barking madly. Loghain just had time to drop his pack before Alistair hit him with a running tackle, bowling him clean off his feet and sending the pair of them flying. Loghain landed with a hard thud amid bracken thick enough to entangle his bow, and Alistair landed on top of him, holding him down with armored arms.

Loghain grunted, winded by Alistair's considerable weight. Even as Loghain raised his hands into a defensive pose, he wondered if Alistair would hug him or slug him. In Loghain's experience, being tackled to the ground like this was usually the opening move in a full-scale, knock-down drag-out punch-up.

Loghain regretted his light armor when Alistair's brawny arms tightened around him hard enough to make both leather and ribs creak. Then Alistair lunged in for a kiss. Loghain's eyes snapped wide and he huffed in his usual, instinctive shock at being on the receiving end of affection.

As they broke apart, Alistair kept patting Loghain's chest and shoulders, as if checking for injuries, as if he wasn't sure Loghain was real. "Found you! Finally!" His cry was pure unselfconscious relief and joy.

Loghain tried to compose himself from the physical assault on his person, committed by someone more enthusiastic and brainless than even the youngest mabari pup. "What in the Void are you doing here?"

"I'm following _you!_ Why did you leave?"

"Isn't it obvious?" Loghain growled, doing his best to bring this moonstruck young idiot to his senses. "Now answer me! Why are you here when you've got a wedding to attend! A country to rule!"

"_What?_"Alistair's head jerked back as if Loghain had punched him. "How can you even _ask_ that?" He scrambled gracelessly to stand with far too much empty space between them. "That's what you planned from the start, isn't it? You plotted to take me to Denerim to marry Anora. Yet after all we've been through together, after everything I've shared with you, you still wouldn't change your mind! How could you even _think_ I'd go along with that wedding? It's not even a wedding, it's the biggest lie ever, not just for me but for Ferelden, and I can't! I... " Alistair's voice shook. "I trusted you! And _you_, you didn't even have the guts to see it through to the end! So you left me there and you ran away! And you're still running!"

"Oh, stop acting like a maudlin maiden!" Despite himself, Loghain was annoyed by Alistair's hysterics, and that irritation showed in the impatient sharpness of his voice, the hard twist to his mouth as he climbed to his feet. "You're a _king_, like your father, so you need to stop traipsing around after _me_, go back to Denerim, get married, and concentrate on ruling the bloody country while there's still a country left!"

"Look, I'm the _worst _choice for a king, we both know it! Anora knows it, and now the whole Landsmeet does too!"

_"What?"_

"I had to tell them the truth! It's not like I can carry on the Theirin line. So I told them that, and then I renounced the throne. It's over. The wedding's off, I'll never be king."

As Alistair spoke, Loghain knew he was standing there agape, but for a long, choked moment words wouldn't come: not from the lack of something to say, but from too many things clamoring to be said first. For one stunned second, Loghain even thought that Alistair was taking their declarations of commitment to a whole new level of celibate insanity. But then he couldn't help giving a ragged, relieved sigh, when he realised what Alistair must have meant. _A far more practical point: it's all but impossible for a Grey Warden to father an heir._

_It's over. Over. _Alistair's words were a drumbeat echoing in his ears. _All over. _At last Loghain managed to gather his scattered wits enough to gasp out, "What the _fuck _were you thinking? What sort of selfish idiot leaves Ferelden's future in chaos, you -"

"Nice vote of confidence in your own daughter!" Alistair shouted over him. It had the rare effect of stopping Loghain mid-snarl, as efficiently as a fist in his teeth. "Anora's wiser and more trustworthy than any noble the Landsmeet can hope to find, and I made damn sure she'll stay on the throne where she belongs."

Stung, Loghain stepped back. Alistair had thrown his grievous mistake in his face: without thinking, Loghain had taken his daughter's accomplishments for granted, just like the rest of Ferelden. "Neatly done," Loghain retaliated, "You left her behind to do your dirty work for you."

"You left first!" Alistair cried, "Disappeared without so much as a simple goodbye."

"Of course I left. There was nothing else for me to do," Loghain cut off the accusation with a brisk tone. "My duty to Ferelden was done."

"'Duty'?" Alistair's stare was wounded, his voice sharp with accusation. "What about _us_? Was I a 'duty' too? Was it all just a lie? A game? Was teaching me to _want_ to be tied up just a convenient way to keep me leashed on the way back to Denerim?"

"_I_ never taught you to want that," Loghain snapped, outraged at the implication of force, after all the care he'd taken to ensure Alistair choices and Alistair's needs came first. "All I did was help you to admit it."

"Oh, you _helped_, all right. Did you have a good laugh afterwards? Did you plan all along to leave me behind as soon as I was no longer _useful_?" There was steel in Alistair's voice at the last word; the kind he always had when talking about backstabbing royalty, or the assassins who served them: sharp with disappointment at the idea of such ultimate betrayal.

"Oh, come off it," Loghain growled, determined not to let himself be swayed by Alistair's wounded stare. "In case you haven't noticed, you're always 'useful', if you want to be. Ferelden hadn't even recovered from war with the Orlesians, before it was hit by the Archdemon and an entire darkspawn army. Lothering was far from the only town wiped off the map; Maker knows how much farmland has been blighted. There's a whole country to rebuild, and all you want to do is whine about my leaving you behind? I've left men behind before, at Ostagar and elsewhere: good men who _wanted _to be useful, because that was what circumstances demanded. I did it before and I'll do it again in a heartbeat, because unlike you,_ boy_, I know where my duty lies."

Loghain regretted saying it, even before he saw Alistair's tell-tale flinch and the thin-lipped grimace that followed. "Is that all I am to you? A 'boy'? You sound like Eamon!"

The taint tightened Loghain's throat and made his hands shake with an echo of Alistair's distress as well as his own anger. "Don't _ever _compare me to that slimy sack of shit!"

At this short distance, their shared, tainted shadowsense made hiding from one another, on any level, impossible. Loghain expected to feel righteous rage from Alistair in defense of his foster father, but instead Alistair winced again, as if at a fresh wound, and Loghain felt the pang. Then Alistair shook his head, gathering himself after that instinctive reaction, and gave a sarcastic snort. "Yeah, I suppose you've got a point about Eamon. Sorry."

_Eamon must have shown his true nature at the Landsmeet, bluntly enough that even Alistair took notice. Bloody pity that scheming old sod didn't have a stroke on the spot!_ Even though Loghain hadn't had the treat of seeing the look on Eamon's face or hearing his bluster, he was still pleased enough - by Alistair's apology and by his new insight into his former guardian - that Loghain made a small concession in return. "And I suppose I shouldn't have called you a boy." Loghain's grimace shifted into a brief sideways smirk. "I, of all people, know better."

The smirk faded and Loghain drew a breath. His ribs twinged slightly, the bruises of Alistair's bearhug already fading, but the taint still bound them closer than any physical embrace. As Loghain spoke, he hoped Alistair could sense Loghain's unspoken need to reassure Alistair of the truth. "Believe me, what we shared was…" _unforgettable,_ "-_not_ a lie. You were _never_ a lie."

Loghain paused and wished he could end the confession there. It would be so easy to stop. But he kept on talking, because the whole truth was far more complicated, and Alistair deserved to know about the whole tangled mess of Loghain's life, his motivations, and his losses. "But some things are _necessary_for the good of the realm. I _know _how it must feel; trust me, I _do_. Your father Maric needed a strong queen. He and Rowan were betrothed as children, long before I met either of them, and in the end they both honored that commitment." He fixed Alistair with a heavy stare. "All _three _of ushonored it, despite what any of us may have wished. To see Maric and Rowan wed was what Ferelden needed, and a need like that cannot be ignored..." his voice lowered to a reminiscent murmur, "...even if it meant sacrificing someone I very much wanted for myself."

Alistair's eyes widened as he understood something no other living soul knew about Loghain. "You were in love. With..." Alistair's voice trailed off, but the unspoken question was obvious in his expression. _Which one?_

Loghain faced him, meeting his gaze without flinching as he admitted, "I loved them both." _How could I not? They were closer to me than anyone else, each in their own unique way. I trusted them with my life._

Alistair's eyes widened. "...You gave them _both _up," he breathed, appalled. "Just like that. Without even trying..."

"I had to." _What did it matter, that letting Rowan go, and watching Maric marry her, felt like tearing my own heart out, twice over? _"It was my duty."

"_Fuck_ duty!" Alistair grabbed Loghain's shoulders. Loghain could feel a tremor in his grip, a physical shake which wasn't quite deliberate. "Don't you see? _I'm_ the living proof of just how badly that perfect royal wedding turned out! How many more king's bastards will it take 'til you realise you can take all this self sacrifice too damn far?"

Loghain's eyes narrowed and he replied dryly, "Oh, I think one bastard's quite enough."

"Good," Alistair echoed, just as dry. "Now, this is what's going to happen. If you even think I will _ever _go along with any sort of duty that involves you leaving me behind," Alistair pulled Loghain quickly into his hold and whispered breathlessly, "I _won't_, Loghain. You're too important. If you want to go somewhere, fine, go, but I'm going with you. And if you want me gone, well - too bad," Alistair shrugged off his hooded cloak, exposing the dragonbone collar. "You'll have to take _this_ back first."

_He's wearing my collar._ The realisation hit Loghain like a physical blow; his heart gave a single thud against his ribs, hard as a fist against the bars of a cage. "Don't be a fool," he husked, although at that moment even Loghain couldn't tell if he was speaking to Alistair or himself.

"_And_," Alistair continued speaking over Loghain's murmur, "if you want more than a day's head start tomorrow, you'll have do much better than tying me up or sneaking out again without a single word!" As Alistair spoke his fingers were busy unbuckling the collar, and now he drew it off his neck and held it out in one hand. The dragonbone pieces curled like a sleeping serpent in his palm. He met Loghain's stare and lifted his chin proudly, as if the sheer vulnerability of his pale, stubbled throat was a challenge.

_Dramatic idiot. _"If you don't know by now that armoring you, or leaving you behind out of harm's way, has nothing to do with restraining you, then you're an even bigger fool than I thought." Loghain's fingers reached out of their own accord to cover the collar in Alistair's grasp, to close Alistair's fingers over the smooth dragonbone. As if charmed, the touch took the fight out of him. The bone was still warm from Alistair's skin. "Put that back on," he grumbled.

At their feet, Dog planted himself pointedly right behind Alistair and headbutted him toward Loghain. Loghain steadied him against the sudden shove, with a hand on his shoulder.

Alistair's gaze lifted to meet Loghain's. "No. _You_ do it. Put it on me. Properly."

Loghain's throat tightened at the implication of what that request meant. "Only if you want me to."

"You can't just walk away. You have to finish what you started."

"I... -"

"Loghain, _please_."

The word was a spell. It held power: so many memories of Alistair, helpless with trust, flushed with lust, needing Loghain's hard body and harder mind, his mercilessness. His mercy.

How can anyone refuse such an offering twice?

_I can't walk away. I can't leave it undone. _Loghain himself was undone, by one word and the sight before him. He felt lost. He'd never even been the one to lead a ritual, a wedding, a Joining; let alone create a whole new ritual, one just for himself.

Alistair was somehow able to trust him: the kind of blind trust Loghain never felt for anyone, not even himself. _I need to give him something worthy of that trust. Something beyond the rigid rites of the Chantry and the Wardens. This is not about the past, it's about building a future together, starting right now. We're free to do all that. Together. Today. _

But this wasn't a ritual. Not quite. Not like witnessing Maric and Rowan's handfasting, or sliding a ring on Celia's delicate finger, or drinking death from a goblet.

Even though his own marriage to Celia had ended up more political than personal, there was an unfailing pattern in Loghain's life, of profound loss and sacrifice, and at the head of it all were always ritual formalities: official and public, unstoppable and inescapable. Like Rowan and Maric's wedding, where he'd sacrificed two loves. Like the Joining, where he'd sacrificed his life.

All for Ferelden.

His country's needs trumped everything else: Loghain had always believed that. But just this once, Loghain had seen his chance, and had fled Denerim before Alistair and Anora were wed. He'd been desperate to avoid yet another ritual reminder of everything he'd lost: everything he wanted, needed, but could never, ever have: his life returned to him, his love returned. By Alistair.

If this was a ritual after all, it required no sacrifice, no rhyme, and only one reason: Alistair asked, and Loghain was honored to give his answer.

They were without a witness, except Dog, yawning at all the fuss over a handful of sunbleached old bones for a collar. The collar was carved and corded and presented for the claiming, gathered on Loghain's palm like a broken cage of ribs, only missing a beating heart inside.

Flemeth's bones: the strongest, most potent dragonbone in all the Wilds.

An amulet for a Templar.

A ward for a Warden.

Alistair's fierce, fighting sword may have conquered the dragon, but Loghain's cunning, carving dagger had tamed her remains, had sculpted every bone to fit to Alistair's flesh, smoothed every edge to spare Alistair's skin. From abandoned relics of death, Loghain had transformed the bones into a shield against dangers untold and unseen, recompense for all the times he could not be there to fight at Alistair's back.

The two of them moved as one. There was no need for words, no place for questions, no room for uncertainty. The bond between them blazed silently with need, reassurance, pride, joy; shared, echoed, certain as the sun.

Slowly, Loghain reached out, with both hands. The hand not holding the collar settled on Alistair's shoulder, nudging gently downward. Silently, eyes fixed on Loghain's face the whole time, Alistair sank to his knees. Then he bowed his head, baring the nape of his neck, pale and vulnerable in the early morning light. This was not the servitude of a knight to a noble, nor the blind faith of a Chantry follower. Alistair knelt like a lover seeking closeness and pleasure. That thought - that memory - sent a surge of heat through Loghain as he reached for Alistair.

He lifted his handiwork to Alistair's neck and let the smooth bone pieces slide and click into place right over Alistair's collarbones, over the exposed skin. His palm slid over Alistair's jaw, over his burning ears. Loghain looped the collar around Alistair's neck and buckled it swiftly. When it was on, Alistair lifted his head, meeting Loghain's gaze once more. Their shared connection was drawing them ever closer, lodestone and steel. Loghain trailed a hand from his shoulder, over the sleek dragonbone, and touched the point of his chin, coaxing Alistair to rise to his feet as gently and wordlessly as he'd encouraged him to kneel.

Once Alistair rose, the collar once again completing his armor, Loghain slid his hands down that broad chest, checking buckles and fastenings, just as Alistair had done for him so many times before.

Bronze buckles glinted in the sun, well-worn, vellum-smooth leather caressed his fingertips, and Alistair's warm gaze felt like another, only slightly less tangible caress. Under it, Loghain's skin tingled. The morning brightened around them as sunlight slanted through the trees and filled the clearing. The hush that had fallen between them felt momentous, too sacred to break: the dawn of a new life. Their promise to each other had none of the trappings of officialdom, no pageantry or witnesses, no Chantry sanction, no flowery vows - no words at all - but it had needed none.

For the first time in his existence, Loghain had followed his heart, had allowed himself to reach for what he truly wanted. Abruptly he flung his arms around Alistair and hauled him chest to chest with a thud, into an embrace every bit as crushing as Alistair's reunion bearhug had been.

"I'm sorry," he whispered finally, barely breathing his promise into the crown of Alistair's head, "I won't leave you again."

"You won't," Alistair agreed, just as softly. "I'm coming with you."

Loghain lowered his face against Alistair's hair, closed his eyes, and drew a slow, deep breath, filling himself with that familiar scent and savouring it, headier than the richest wine. He nodded into that intoxicating warmth. _Looks like I'm both claimed and forgiven. I don't know how he managed that particular feat of trust, but I'm obviously staying on as his Commander. As far more than his Commander, now._

_Quite a role to live up to… not that we won't enjoy trying out new roles._

Loghain inclined his head, a nod to an equal. "We'll go together."

How strange it still felt, this new bond; how impossible, that Alistair was willing to go with Loghain, collar or not, wherever he went. Loghain had had Hero of River Dane fans. He'd had armies. He'd had a one-time-only lover, and another love he'd never even had one time with, and he'd stood aside and watched them wed. He'd had a wife he'd had nothing in common with except their daughter, and he'd left both of them behind far too often. And then, there was this instinctive, essential connection that had arisen so gradually, so naturally with Alistair.

No one _ever _felt that way for _him!_ Maric was the one everyone worshipped. Rowan was the one they all listened to. Loghain was always the expendable one, the one who had to protect, defend, risk his life, fighting for the figureheads everyone loved.

But Alistair was listening to _him_, was smitten by _him_. Was following _him_. And nobody else, not even Duncan, could claim that Alistair had done the same for them. Alistair was Loghain's, body, heart, and soul, offered as freely as his love, and who was Loghain to refuse such an offer?

_Perhaps we'll both get to share Alistair's wish for many years to come. Until the end. There's no one else I'd rather meet the end with. And until then, he's mine. _

Loghain cupped Alistair's face in his grasp and leaned in to taste that familiar, daring smile, and found himself smiling back, smiling into their kiss.

_Mine!_

_...And his,_ Loghain admitted to himself in the privacy of their shared embrace, shared breath, shared mind. Alistair returned his kiss eagerly, enticingly, humming happiness as their fingers met and intertwined over the skin-smooth edge of the dragonbone collar.

* * *

The sun had moved quite a way across the sky since all had fallen quiet and still. Dog yawned pointedly. Still no response. He snorted at the bodies piled together in the green clearing, then gave a quiet growl at a cheeky squirrel that dared to come too close. _You're lucky I'm on watch. Run off or you'll be a snack. _

In the stretching shadows of the trees, Leader rested. Pup was curled up at Leader's side: collared, claimed and licked clean.

All was well.


End file.
